Minutes to Memories
by Bastille Kain
Summary: Logan gets a call from somebody out of his past that informs him the mother of his daughter just died.
1. Chap 1: The Stranger

Author: Kain

Title: Minutes to Memories

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The character's of Buffy, Angel, or any other show that happens to be unfortunate enough to be used here belong to other people.

Spoilers: Crossover X-MEN the movie/ Highlander the series/ BtVS

Summary: Logan gets a call from somebody out of his past that informs him the mother of his daughter just died.

Pairings: We'll have to wait and see what develops won't we?

Rating: PG-13.

Feedback: Is always appreciated. Just try to keep it constructive.

Email: Kain6639yahoo com

Archive: If you like it that much, sure. Just be sure to let me know where it's going, and give me the credit, good or bad, for my work.

**Chapter One: The Stranger**

The venerable mansion was relatively quiet. The stone, brick, and wood building, with ivy climbing its exterior walls was a majestic structure to behold. It had been built more then four hundred years ago, and renovated dozens of times throughout the long years.

At various times it has housed British Officers, during the French and Indian War and The American Revolution. Its labyrinth of hidden passageways had been added years before The Civil War when it had been one of the final legs in the Underground Railroad. Several American Presidents have spent time resting inside the massive, cathedral like building; most recently Jimmy Carter years before he ever thought of running for presidential office. A handful of Foreign Dignitaries: Prime Ministers, Ambassadors, and other persons of notable repute have all taken their ease under its stout roof.

It was built upon an enormous tract of land, most of which was still untapped, virgin woodlands. Or if the dense forest had ever been forested it had taken place so long ago that only the barest trace, if any still remained. Its grounds: tennis and basketball courts, a baseball field, and a large field that doubled, not just for soccer and football, but was used to play rugby and lacrosse as well were always kept in meticulous conditions.

It was the tail end of winter, a season that still had the northeast clutched in its icy grip; the last snows were freshly fallen just a few short days ago. The fields and courts though had already been cleared of any snow, and the outdoor pool was kept at a tropical seventy-seven degrees.

For Logan relative was the operative word. The vast network of sprawling corridors and immense rooms would seem silent as any tomb to a normal human. Not even the softest sound disturbed the tranquility of the old building.

To Logan however the palatial structure was a cornucopia of distinct and varying sounds. Kitty, the school's resident super genius, was on the phone with some of her friends from Chicago. Her throaty laughter bounced off the walls of the room she shared with half a dozen other girls.

At the end of the hall Ororo was teaching a small class, physics he thought by the terms they were banding about. They meant little to him, but then again he didn't have to worry about passing the class.

Two of the students, Jubilation Lee and James Madrox, seemed to hold with his opinion of the subject and were currently holding a whispered conversation in the back of the room. He should let Ororo know, but he really had no desire to get a couple of otherwise good kids into trouble. If they wanted to fail the exam coming up in the next few days it was their choice. Besides, the way he figured it, if they didn't know the material by now they never would.

He had only been back a week from his most recent excursion to dig up his past, to uncover the secrets that have been locked away from him. It had been a bust. The base was nothing more then a burnt out husk. Whatever secrets it held had gone up in the inferno that had consumed everything that had been inside.

Xavier was still trying to convince him to take on some teaching duties, but he was resisting. His temper didn't make him a very stable person to have around and he wanted to make sure he could handle being crammed in a house full of kids before he tried teaching them anything. He didn't know what he could teach them. The only thing he knew how to do was kill.

Life inside the mansion was hectic. The adjustment that came from living amongst the havoc created by so many teenagers was trying. While most of the kids still walked wide of him, like they were edging their way around a sleeping python, unsure if it had eaten recently but trying to avoid the problem by not waking it up. Of course they did it with the reckless abandon of teenagers completely unaware of the danger.

Other students looked at him with a mixture of envy and wonder; he was part of the X-Men: part of that elite group of teachers and students that went on missions, adverted global disasters, brought international incidents to grinding halts, kept the world safe for mutants and humans alike. He could hear them talk; about him, about the other X-Men. How cool they were, how cool it would be to be one of them.

At times he simply wanted to grab them by the shoulders, to shake them, to rage that it wasn't cool, that it wasn't a game. That it was real; that people died; people they cared about. Their lives snuffed out before they ever had a chance to live. That they left a hole in you, a dark pit of misery that swallowed you whole, devoured you from the inside, eating away at everything; tinting it, tainting it forever.

When those dark moods did take he held on the best he could. Strangling those dark foreboding thoughts in his bare hands if that was what it took to gain control of himself. Sometimes though that wasn't enough and no matter how hard he fought he felt his control slipping. Moments like that he would extricate himself from whatever he might be doing, politely if he could, but more often then not it was with a sour grunt as he brushed past people. Several hours of intense training would normally burn off the edge, and allow him to slip back within civilized society unnoticed.

_Logan_, Xavier's mental voice chimed inside his head.

"Yeah," Logan replied aloud.

He could almost hear a chuckle inside his skull as Xavier responded, _You have a phone call_. _Line two_.

"Thanks," he replied as he went in search of a telephone. Fortunately there seemed to be one around every corner so it didn't take him long. "Yeah," he grunted sourly into the handset.

"Don't talk Logan," a garbled voice said, "I don't have much time so just listen…"

"Who are you?"

They ignored Logan's demand. "…You won't remember me, but we used to work together a long time ago. Joyce Summers died earlier this evening. You don't remember her either but she was important to you back before the procedure…"

"Who the hell are you? What kind of game are you playing at?" Logan snarled into the handset.

"Just repaying an old debt. Joyce Summers. Sixteen-thirty Revello Drive, Sunnydale California. The mother of your daughter." With that the voice was gone.

The phone shattered in Logan's hand as a low growl erupted from his chest.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Xavier's motorized wheelchair turned into the room that had been assigned to Logan upon his return to the mansion. As rooms Xavier's went it wasn't much, which meant it was the equivalent of a four star suite in most hotels. A lite sandalwood paneling covered the walls. The hard wood floor was polished to a dull gleam. All of the furnishings were exquisitely hand crafted antiques, some of which could probably be dated back to Colonial America.

Even after a week Logan still felt out of place among all the finery, it didn't posses any of his soul, any of his grit. Standing in the center of the room he felt like an imposter who had stepped into somebody else's life.

Charles looked at the duffle bag stuffed to the gills with clothes. It was easy to determine his intentions even without being a telepath. Still certain questions needed to be asked. "You're going aren't you?" Charles inquired as diplomatically as possible.

Logan grunted at the question. "Don't really have a choice now do I? Somebody out of my past calls up tells me I got a daughter. That her mother just died…" He stopped feeling his anger build again. The last thing he wanted to do was take his temper out on one of the few people that has ever helped him without expecting anything in return. "Wouldn't be much of a man if I didn't?"

"I never say you shouldn't go," Xavier clarified his statement. "I just wanted to make certain that you aware that this could be nothing more then an elaborate ruse." He tried to keep himself from sounding even more insufferably pompous then he normally does.

"Doesn't matter," Logan informed the crippled idealist as he zipped the duffle close with a murderous jerk.

Charles nodded at Logan's statement. He hadn't really expected anything different out of his feisty friend. Logan would always be the one to leap into action regardless of the situation. "I rather thought it wouldn't. I assume you thought of someone to watch your back?"

Logan glanced at Xavier with annoyance. As he expected, Logan hadn't thought of anyone to watch his back. Xavier new the man would knowingly walk headlong into a trap and never once doubt his ability to walk back out. After a moment he asked, "Who'd you wanna saddle me with?" He didn't want somebody hanging around that was just going to hold him back.

"Kurt," he answered simply.

Logan brows furrowed as he said, "The elf." That was one person he hadn't expected. The only other least likely person he could imagine Xavier suggesting would have been Summers. Logan didn't have any problems with Kurt, so long as he didn't try and convert him, which he hasn't tried yet.

Charles shrugged as he said, "He volunteered."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Amanda watched pensively as Duncan stuffed clothes into a leather overnight bag. His dark slacks made a soft whisk sound as he moved about his Seacouver loft gathering clothes, his hard soled boots made a barely audible thwack as he tread over the polished hard wood floor. His black duster and a desert brown turtle neck were draped over the back of a beautifully crafted wooden rocking chair.

Like normal when Duncan was shirtless in her presence Amanda spent a great deal of time enraptured by his amazing torso. She knew of Greek statues that would envy his exquisitely sculpted body. It was a constant work in progress. Each time they meant his landscape had altered subtly, Duncan was always in motion, constantly training so there were always little variations, new peaks and valleys she could spend hours mesmerizing, dreaming up ways to trip him into her bed because the reality was far better then any fantasy she could contrive.

Most days, so long as he wasn't involved with someone, Duncan would allow himself to be tripped. That however wasn't the case today. Today Duncan Macleod was in, as far as she was concerned, a far too serious mood.

The younger immortal was trying to fit several days' worth of clothing into a piece of luggage that was only meant to carry one. His face was a stoic Highlander mask that did a poor job of concealing his emotions as he packed his bag.

She found it disconcerting to see just how deeply connected he allowed himself to become with these mortals, at how much pain he suffered whenever one of them died, and they died all the time which was why she found it best not to become involved with them. "You barely knew the woman," she said firmly into the quietness that saturated the room.

Duncan exhaled slowly as he shoved a last pair of socks into the bag. "She was a friend of Tessa's," he answered simply. He didn't expect Amanda to understand. There were few mortals that the clever thief took into her heart. Like most of their kind she had learnt early on to keep herself detached from the mortals they dwelt among. A trait he had never developed.

"So send the family a card expressing your condolences. You don't have to fly a thousand miles to attend the funeral of a woman you met twice," she argued deftly.

He cocked his head over his shoulder giving the platinum blond beauty a look she knew all too well as he said, in a voice that also let her know in no uncertain terms that the argument is over, "I'm going Amanda and that's the last I'll hear on it."

Amanda huffed as Duncan crossed the room to the chair holding his shirt and coat. "Fine, but when we get to L.A. You're going to have to buy me a few outfits."

Duncan blinked, slightly confused by her statement before he said, "Me? What's wrong with you using your own money?"

"It's, tied up at the moment," she answered delicately.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The sun shone brilliantly out of a clear, crystal blue sky. A dozen people in their best dress stood behind two young girls sitting passively, pensively in a pair of cushion, metal, folding chairs. It was easy for anyone to tell by the similarities in their features, that they were siblings.

For Logan it was even easier then that to know the two girls were related, even if he was standing a hundred yards away in the shade of a large oak tree. Only how they were related to each other wasn't how most people would expect. The younger girl's base scent was identical to her older sister's. The only time, before this, that Logan had ever smelt anything similar was when he had run across identical twins. Only here there was a good six years age difference between the two girls.

There were differences in their scents as well. The aroma of death hung like a cloak over the older girl. There was a strange fragrance to the younger sister, something he had never smelt before. If forced to put a name to it he would say green, like a fresh lime, only that was nowhere close to describing what he truly smelt. It was so much more then that, yet simpler as well.

It was indescribable.

One thing that he was positive of was that they were his.

Both of them.

He didn't know how but he knew that. He had come here expecting to find a trap even while he hoped to find a connection to a past that had been stolen from him.

He had found that.

Along with even more questions.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt sat in the window of the church's belfry watching with a heavy heart as the services proceeded. Both he and Logan thought the odds were better then even that this was nothing more then likely an elaborate trap set to ensnare the feisty, feral mutant; but so far the day's events have gone off without a hitch. He prayed that, for once, their luck stayed this good and they managed to last the day without getting into a major scrap.

While he watched the services from afar he offered his own pray for the deceased, the two daughters that she had been taken away from so suddenly. He also offered a prayer for his friend. That Logan was able to discover some of the answers he has been searching for.

Kurt offered the prayer even though he knew Logan would tell him not to bother.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy sat through the services hardly aware of what was going on around her. She had been distracted all day long. Like something there she could just see out of the corner of her eye. Only ever time she turned it was no longer there. It was like something softly tickling the base of her skull.

The feeling puts her in mind of how she had always been able to tell when Angel was nearby, or Faith, Spike, Dawn… Her mother. A few other people as well. She had searched for Spike when it had first started, but her platinum blonde stalker was nowhere to be found. Neither was Angel, and Faith was still in prison. Dawn, like the rest of her friends, had been at her side all day, and her mother…

She was never going to feel her mother's comforting presence again.

"My deepest sympathy's," Duncan said to the two girls who sat in front of the casket.

The sound of his strange accent snapped Buffy out of her thoughts. Looking up she stared into his sun darken face. Into a pair of extremely sad eyes that look regarded her somberly. Buffy nodded to the man she had never seen before, "Did you know…" She trailed off unable to complete the sentence.

Duncan gave his head a slight shake. "We only met a few times. She was a friend of my fiancé, Tessa."

Buffy quickly took in the beautiful, platinum blonde haired woman at Duncan's elbow. She couldn't imagine her mother being friends with somebody so glamorous. Before she can say anything though Amanda spoke up, "I'm not his fiancé," she informed Buffy with a polite smile. "Just an old friend who didn't think Duncan should be let out of sight for too long. He has a bad habit… He tends to get into all kinds of trouble when left to his own devices." Buffy blinked, she tried to return the woman's smile, but found it to be impossible.

After a moment she returned her attention to the tall Scotsman. Duncan wiped the scowl from his face. He had known bringing Amanda to the funeral would be a mistake, and he had been right. Reaching into his coat pocket he retrieved the card he had prepared earlier, "If you need anything," he began handing her the card, "don't hesitate to call. If you can't reach me directly one of the others numbers will be able to get a message to me. Again you have my deepest sympathy's," he finished softly to Buffy. He took the blonde by the arm and in a harsh whisper said, "Come along Amanda."

Before moving Amanda gave Dawn a sympathetic look. Reaching out with her white leather clad hand she wiped the moisture from the young girl's cheek with her thumb. "I am sorry for your loss," she murmured with genuine emotion etching her face. Then the look was gone. Her blasé facade slipped back in place and she was striding off at Duncan's side.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Did you feel that?" Amanda whispered, low for Duncan's ears alone as the pair move out of earshot of everyone else while they made their way toward Duncan's rental.

"No," he answered. Sarcasm was heavy in his voice as he gave the older immortal a look that let her know he thought she ought to be shot for even asking the question.

Amanda returned his look evenly as she continued, "She hasn't even had her first death and her quickening dwarves even the oldest of us."

Duncan nodded at the statement. "You know what this means don't you?"

Sudden fear streaked through her face as she stared at him, "You can't be..."

"Think about it." Duncan cut her off. "If some other immortal like; Kalas, or Xavier… Chronos? Or who knows how many other just like them, if any were to find her. You know what would happen."

Amanda sighed heavily, as if somebody had just put a boulder on her shoulders and told her she couldn't put it down until she stole the crown jewels. In a disheartened voice she answered saying, "They would kill her. Let her wake up. Then take her head," she said explaining the sequence of events. "But does it have to be here?" She griped as she comes to a stop.

Duncan stopped with her, "You don't…" He began, but stopped abruptly as he caught sight of a man standing motionless in the shadows of a large oak. He had been so still Duncan had nearly missed him. If not for stopping when he had he would have walked right pass without seeing him. Even knowing he was there the Scotsman was having a hard time picking him out. His dark clothes blending into the shadows as if he was a part of them

From this distance Duncan easily recognized the man. Grabbing hold of Amanda's arm he gave her firm pull to start her moving again, "Come on. Now's not the time to be taking a rest."

"What is it?" She asked casting a quick glance around the graveyard.

"An old friend's here," he said. "One that doesn't have to abide by our rules," he added meaningfully.

**The grand ball room, with its gold painted walls and crystalline chandeliers, was filled with the strains of Mozart's Forty-first symphony. Only the elite of the elite were in attendance and still the palatial room was stuffed with the cream of Hitler's Third Reich. Duncan was here on official business, orders from Britain's intelligence services, but even he was taking a moment to enjoy the beautiful sounds of Germany's most talented musicians as they paid homage to, in most peoples' opinion, the world's greatest composer.**

"**Duncan," Rommel, Germany's finest Field Marshal greeted the Scotsman. "What a surprise it is to see you here tonight. And escorting such an enchanting prize," he added openly admiring the raven haired beauty on Duncan's arm.**

"**Please allow me to introduce the two of you," Duncan replied formally. "Amanda Devorioux. Erwin Johannes Eugen Rommel…"**

"**It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Madame Devorioux," Rommel said taking Amanda's satin gloved hand placing a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her knuckles.**

"**The pleasure is all mine," Amanda replied. Her voice dripped with false sweetness.**

"…**The best military mind Hitler has at his disposal," Duncan finished.**

"**You give me too much credit Duncan," the military genius said with dismissive grace.**

"**I'm surprised to see you here though," Duncan remarked idly. "I would have thought his Fuhrer would want you in Africa keeping an eye on whatever offensive the British forces were mounting?" He took a casual glance around the ball room, his gaze settling upon a man climbing the stairs upward just as he paused to look out the window.**

**The immortal was momentarily stunned by the man standing there. Aside from the clothing he was wearing he looked no different then he had fifty years earlier when Duncan had seen him just on the outskirts of the territory the Sioux hunted.**

**_With the only thing covering his body being a layer of thick hair, and weapon visible the man had taken down a full grown elk with nothing more then his bare hands. While he had stayed hidden in the brush, the man had sniffed the air like a wild animal that had caught a strange scent. Several moments passed as he continued to scent the air before his eyes settled on the spot Duncan had himself secreted. He stared there for a long moment before turning away. He hefted the elk onto his shoulders like its weight was nothing to him. Then he had glided off into the woods disappearing almost instantly._**

**_After nearly ten minutes Duncan had gone to the spot he had been, but he was unable to find even the slightest sign that the man had been there. When he asked the Sioux elders about him they simply called him "the ghost that hunted the forest". They told him that occasionally hunters would see, catch brief glimpses, of him, but could never find any sign or track when they investigated the area. When he asked how the long the man had been out there the chief had told him his father's father had told him as his father's father had told him and so it went._**

**A grandfather telling his grandson about the ghost that hunted the forest.**

**Duncan figured the man must have been living that way for more then a century. Possibly two, if not longer, with how well the Sioux remember things. He had looked for the man after that, but had been unable to find him. Not surprising considering the fact he could disappear while carrying a dead elk on his shoulders.**

**Now he was here, fifty years later, wearing as expensive of a tuxedo as anyone else in the room. Again he scents the air, his head swiveled, and his eyes locked on Duncan, then shifted to Amanda. A very wolfish grin quirked the corner of his lips.**

**A massive explosion just outside the Grand Hall rocked the building as huge gouts of flames sprout high into the air, lighting up the night sky. A second and then third explosion quickly followed the first and pandemonium ripped through those in attendance.**

**Voices shout orders to those in the room.**

**Previously unnoticed soldiers rush to cover all the buildings exits.**

**Duncan like everybody else had been drawn to the fiery explosions taking place around the building. Looking back at the stairs he just catches sight of him as he disappears around a corner at the top of the stairs.**

"**Get her someplace safe," Rommel ordered Duncan, before he disappeared in the throng of people. Somehow his voice boomed over the commotion as he began to take control of the situation.**

"**Come on," he ordered grabbing hold of Amanda's elbow.**

"**You can't seriously be thinking about doing the job now," she hissed into his ear. "It would be suicide."**

"**Someone's already going after the files," he told her. He was positive that was what the man the Sioux called, the ghost who hunted the forest, was after. "He's the one that set off…" Another explosion thundered in the night outside the grand ball room.**

"**He's using them as cover," Amanda said as they reached the top of the stairs. Turning down the same corridor they spotted three SS officers lying crumpled on the floor, their necks bent at unnatural angles. Not one of them had even drawn a weapon.**

**The door was shut, but Duncan quickly broke through, Amanda following close behind. The Ghost was just slipping out of the window, "He cracked the safe," Amanda muttered in stun disbelief. "How? He was in here less then ten seconds," she added in the same unbelieving tone of voice.**

"**Once we catch him you can ask him," Duncan muttered as he rushed to the window. Again Amanda was close behind him. He looked both ways, but the man was nowhere to be seen, just like in the woods. Looking down he spotted a shadow darting between vehicles. "He jumped."**

**Amanda looked over the edge, "That's a seventy foot drop. He'd have to be insane," she observed cynically as she looked up at Duncan.**

"**Or knew he was going to survive," he replied.**

**Amanda shook her head, "Now you're crazy if you think…" The sound of heavy footsteps cut her off a moment before the door banged open. "Merde!"**

"**Sie dort! Anschlag! Anschlag!"**

"**I really hate it when you ask me for a favor," she complained as she grabbed hold of Duncan's hand. Together the two of them lept off the Grand Ballroom's ledge.**

"Are you sure it's even the same man?" Amanda questioned suspiciously as Duncan pulled into the parking lot of the bed and breakfast hotel they were staying at, a small establishment that called itself the OverView. Why anyone would give it such a name was beyond either of them since it had a view over nothing. Duncan gave her a cold look that she ignored, "I mean it was fifty years ago, and fifty before that. Mortals don't live that long without changing and since neither of us felt anything we know he's mortal."

"Unless his immortality has nothing to do us," Duncan replied when she paused to take a breath. After putting the rented Oldsmobile in park he turned the vehicle off. "I know what the Sioux told me, and I know what I've seen. It is the same man," he finished opening the driver side door. He got out of the car swung the door shut.

Amanda sighed as she followed his lead and got out of the passenger side of the vehicle, "Okay. What if your right?" She questioned coming around the car, "What if it is the same man? What is he doing in Sunnydale? What was he doing at the funeral?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

"But you intend to find out. Don't you?" She inquired as they climbed the wooden stairs that lead to the front door. "Why do I let you drag me into these things?"

Duncan smiled, glad that he was going to have Amanda watching his back. "Because of my boyish good looks?"


	2. Chap 2: A Hazy Shade of Winter

**Chapter Two: A Hazy Shade of Winter**

The fingertips of Logan's right hand were pressed into the loose pack soil of Joyce Summers' grave as he squatted down next to the soft mound of earth. It was one thing to know he had a past, another to come face to face with what had been taken from him.

Dealing with what might have been.

Always before his past had been some unattainable quest he had been on. It was like a wisp of smoke. He knew it was there, he could feel it, but there was never anything solid when he tried to grab a hold of it. Like smoke, it would simply slip through his finger when he closes his fist around it.

That was what his past had been like.

That had all changed this morning. Now it was tangible. For the first time that he could remember there was something there that he could reach out and touch. If that were possible it made everything more real, more personal now that he knew what had been taken from him.

What someone robed him of.

There were so many things that he wanted to say, so many questions he needed answers to. Questions she might have been able to answer. There wasn't much point in asking them now. They were still there though. Each and every one of them bubbling, roiling inside his skull.

_Who were you_? _What were we to each other_? _Were we friends_? _Dating_? _Engaged_? _Was it only a one night stand that happened twice_? _Did you try to find me_? _Did you even know that I disappeared_? _Do the girls know about me_? _Did you know_? _Did you tell them_? _How would they react to me_? _Should I tell them who I am_? _What I am to them_? _Who was the person that called_? _Why had they waited so long to contact him_?

His nostrils flared as a new scent whispered across the still air.

He could leave. She would never know he had been there.

But that felt like running to him and running had never been something he was very good at. So he stood his ground and waited for her, unsure of what he was going to do or say.

Buffy could feel it as she approached her mother's grave. That tiny tingle that was there earlier today. It had left after the funeral, simply disappeared. Now it was back.

Peering into the darkness, she didn't see anything threatening, just more trees, graves, and grass. Sighing deeply after a moment she continued on to her mother's grave. It was time for her to say goodbye to her mother.

In private.

Away from all the prying eyes that had been there at the funeral.

As she neared the gravesite, she saw someone squatting next to the grave. She had seen him several times today. Brief glimpses always from a distance, but that distinctive profile made him easily recognizable.

Without making the slightest sound, she stepped up behind him. "Who are you?" She demanded in a cold whisper. She just couldn't bring herself to speak in a louder voice. She had expected him to give a start at hearing her voice coming from nothing, without warning. A voice that just appeared behind him.

He didn't even flinch.

He simply stayed as was, squatting easily on his haunches. "An old acquaintance of your mother's," he said as he rose to his full height; which was only a couple of inches taller then her, though his upswept hair added a few more to that. He turned to face her while he brushed the dirt from his hands.

For the first time ever, Logan was able to take in every detail of his daughter from only a few inches away. The lightness of her eyes, the pain hiding in them, her dark roots, the challenge in her stance, the anger knifing its way through her scent.

In the middle of a graveyard, during the dead of night, and there was no scent of fear in her aroma. He could feel pride swelling his heart.

Buffy stared at the stranger's eyes. His pupils had expanded so much there was only the barest sliver left to his brown irises. That wasn't what drew her gaze there though. What did that was the emotion his eyes convey. There was so much sadness and regret shinning in his dark orbs that she could almost feel the hammer blow. The rest of his face was like a steel mask hiding a palpable fury. A light twitch in his cheek, the grinding of his teeth. "That didn't really answer my question." She pointed out, soft note of challenge filled her voice.

"Wasn't really meant to," Logan replied. He barely contained a soft growl as her tone prickled his ears.

Buffy glared at the short man she could just about look in the eyes. At his answer and the attitude he exuded. She had asked a simple question and he had evaded answering it. In her life she never found that to be a good combination. She was about to say something when he spoke up saying, "We knew each other, before you were born."

Buffy blinked at that. Even with the thick sideburns, muttonchops, and heavy five o'clock shadow covering the rest of his face if the man was thirty years, he was a very young looking thirty. "What was she, your babysitter?" The snide retort popped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

The quip actually caused Logan to grin faintly, a little ghost of a smile. With a rueful shake of his head he quietly muttered, "Somehow I doubt that."

The tiny blonde couldn't believe what he said, or how he said it. The suggestive tone in his voice had been clear. Logan's nose informed him of the change in her attitude as her scent changed. "Its not as bad as you might be thinking," he assured her. "I'm older then I look. I just age well. Must run in the genes?" The last was said softly, to himself, but he found little humor in the private joke.

Buffy groaned inwardly. The last thing she wanted to hear about tonight was her mother's sex life from when she had been a wild teenager. Looking down at the freshly pack dirt she inquired softly, "What was she like? Back when you knew her."

He looked back down at the freshly turned earth. Buffy could just make out the twitch in his cheek, the resolute set of his jaw. As the moment dragged on without an answer Buffy figured she wasn't going to get one.

"Wish I had an answer for you," Logan finally replied.

"But you just said…" She began but stopped after only a few words as Logan picked up where he had stopped.

"Only there's nothing there. Sixteen years ago is when my life starts. Everything before that is a blank wall," he said in a voice thick with emotion.

Buffy slowly realized what he was talking about. Amnesia. "How do you know about my mom and you then? If you can't remember anything?" She demanded tersely having noticed a flaw in his story.

Logan smiled at her display of intelligence. "Phone call from a mysterious stranger tipped me off. Didn't really believe them at first, but after coming face to face with the truth," he gave her slight shrug, "ain't much use in denying it."

She frowned at another one of his cryptic answers. Before she could say anything though he cut her off, as if he knew she was going to start talking. "Name's Logan by the way… and I guess it's about time I let you get on with paying your respects," he said quietly. He paused to regard her once again with those haunted eyes of his.

Turning swiftly he took three, maybe four quick strides into the darkness and vanished. She could still feel him for a dozen or so seconds more before that to vanished leaving only a faint echo of what had been there.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Angel slowed as he approached Buffy. There was a faint scent lingering in the air, something that tugged at the back of his mind. Like the remnants of a nightmare or vague memory that he couldn't quite recall. It was something that wouldn't leave him. Ignoring the insistent feeling he strode forward crossing the dozen or so yards separating him from the object of his search.

Sitting on the ground with her back leaning against the thick bole of a smooth bark tree, the sole of her left boot pressed lightly into the soft earth, her left forearm draped over her knee, her right hand had a loose grip on her left wrist, and her right calf rested atop her left foot. Her eyes had yet to blink as she stared of at something no one but she could see. Her thoughts were focused inward and she barely felt Angel as he sat down beside her.

She couldn't get her mind off the man that had been here earlier. The things he had said. It was disturbing enough knowing that her mother and Giles had sex once. She wasn't supposed to know those things about her mother. Mothers were supposed to be pure and wholesome and set a good example for their daughters. They weren't supposed to be going around having wild, passionate affairs and if they did, their children shouldn't have to find out about them the day of their funeral.

Logan.

He was a man with amnesia who claimed to have known Joyce back before she had been born. It was about as lame of an excuse as she had ever heard before. Only there had been a distinct ring of anger and pain in his voice that she thought would be hard, if not impossible to fake. Plus there was that sense of familiarity just being in close proximity evoked inside of her.

It was something she had been able to do since she had been called as a slayer. She always knew when Dawn or her Mom were nearby. There were other people she was able to pick up on her mini radar as well: Willow, Angel, Giles, Xander, Faith… Even Spike, which had been a major surprise.

They were all different from her Mom and Dawn and now Logan. Those three had all just been there, strong enough she could point to them almost without thinking about. Everyone else had simply popped up over time.

Everyone else she just knew they were nearby, not where they were.

There had always been one person she found disturbing that she lacked that special connection with. Her father, Hank Summers. For whatever reason she had never been able to sense him as she did everyone else that had a special place in her heart.

Then Logan came along and it was there. A total and complete stranger and she could feel him the same way she could sense her mom… Dawn.

Like she couldn't feel…

She gave herself a mental shake.

_It couldn't be_.

Quickly she recalled her childhood, tried to remember all the little details of her relationship with her father. They had always done everything together. He had taken her everywhere, given her anything, everything she asked for. Showered her with love and affection. He made her feel like the most precious little girl in the entire world.

Then Dawn had been born. Everything had stayed the same to start, but slowly she had found herself pushed aside. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to be noticeable by a six, seven, then eight-year-old girl. It was the main, if not the only, reason she had taken to torturing her sister so much as a child.

Dawn had taken her place in Hank Summers' heart. She was no longer special, no longer unique, just one of a pair. The older one of the pair to be more specific.

Then a little over five years ago, the fights had begun. They had coincided with her being called as the slayer and she had always assumed her parents divorce had been her fault, but now. Being older, being able to look back at the events with a little perspective, she was able to see details she hadn't seen at the time.

Details like Hank pulling away from Dawn. Distancing himself from the daughter, that just a few months earlier, he would have hung the moon for. With Hank and Joyce fighting all the time, and not knowing why, Dawn had gone to the one stable point in her life. Her older sister. Thus began the process of strengthening their fragile sisterhood.

It was frustrating the tiny slayer. Sitting here in front of her mother's grave, reliving the past. She came here so she could say good-bye to her mother in private, without dozens of eyes staring, waiting for her to break down, and the only thing she could do was speculate on something that couldn't possibly be true. Searching for reasons as to why things had happened the way they did.

Wasn't it more likely that grief and denial over her mother's death were making her see things that weren't there, putting reasons that didn't exist on problems she would never be able to fix?

Logan had said he had found proof of his and her mother's relationship in Sunnydale. He had said he came face to face with the truth. She couldn't help but wonder if that was suppose to be some type of euphemism to meeting her or if it was just how the man talked.

She wanted to know what type of evidence he could have found that would convince him of that. He didn't seem like the kind of person to jump at shadows, or to follow false trails, so whatever he had found must have been pretty convincing.

The feel of Angel's arm draping itself over her shoulder brought her out of her thoughts. "Hey," Angel said softly as Buffy looked up at him.

"Oh. Hey," she replied distantly. The last thing she wanted to do right now was to deal with the turmoil and confusion seeing Angel always brought into her life. Not with everything else going on right now. The thought that her father might not be her father was making a mess of her head. It was as if a hornet had gotten loose inside her skull and was buzzing around her brain at a dizzying pace.

Angel smiled wanly hearing the despondent note in her voice. "I came as soon as I was able," he whispered.

Buffy graced him with a soft smile as she said, "Thanks. I appreciate it, but you didn't have to put yourself out coming all the way down here." She needed to find out the truth. It was nearly the only thing on her mind at the moment. Getting hold of her father and finding out what he knew, if anything.

He shook his head as he said, "It wasn't any trouble."

Sighing softly she stood up. Sitting around here wasn't going to solve anything and she needed to solve this before it drove her insane. "I gotta go take care of something," she murmured absently. Turning back to face Angel she said, "I'll leave you alone so you can say goodbye in peace. And… Thanks again. It means a lot to me that you'd come all this way for my mom, even though the two of yous didn't get along."

"We wanted the same thing Buffy," Angel assured her somberly. "We both wanted what was best for you," he added as he stood as well.

Buffy gave a slight nod, "I'm going to go now," she said jerking around and striding into the darkness. She knew it was rude, but she just couldn't deal with Angel right now. Not with everything else… Later, in a few days, she would give him a call and apologize for her behavior, but her need, her desire to find the truth was driving her at the moment.

Angel watched her as she slipped away from him. There was something bothering her, that much was obvious. That she didn't want to talk about it was equally obvious. He wished there was something he could do to lighten her burden, but he knew staying here would just cause both of them more pain. Plus he had his own problems to deal with back in Los Angeles. Problems that weren't going to solve themselves, or go away anytime soon no matter how much he might wish them to.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"And Logan's positive both girls are his?" Charles Xavier inquired unable to keep the intense curiosity out of his voice. "Without any blood test being preformed?"

Kurt gave a slight nod as he answered saying, "Ja. He was talking about scents and odors. Truthfully, I couldn't really follow half of what he was talking about."

"There are certain breeds of animals that can instinctively recognize their offspring," the professor answered absently.

"What about Logan's claim the two girls have identical scents?" Kurt questioned feeling a chill run up his spine. There was something about that he found extremely disturbing. As if it went against laws God himself had set in place.

There was a brief pause before Charles said. "As siblings I would imagine their scents would be similar…"

"Only Logan said their base scents were identical," Kurt reiterated. "Like identical twins. Only here there's a six year age gap."

"Human cloning," Xavier breathed out slowly, sounding as if he was in shock. "There were rumors, vague rumblings, but I never imagined someone could achieve such a thing."

Kurt shook his blue head slightly wishing that he was directly in front of the professor, or even just close enough to convey the anxiety he felt. "They look nothing alike. You can tell their siblings, but…" He trailed off anxiously.

"I'll check into things on my end. See if I can uncover who has the capability of achieving something of this magnitude," he assured the young man he was speaking to.

"How much must one family suffer in a lifetime?" Kurt murmurs too softly for the professor to hear.

Hoping that some better news might lighten Kurt's mood Charles said, "It seems the background search on the Summers family has unearthed a rather unexpected piece of information. Hank Summers had an older brother, Christopher Summers. He was nearly fifteen years Hank's senior, an Air Force test pilot with a wife and two sons. They were on vacation in Colorado some twenty years ago when the entire family disappeared. Simply vanished without a trace."

"One of the sons was named Scott?"

"The older of the two, he was almost six at the time."

Kurt could almost hear the slight note of joy in the professor's voice. He understood that Charles and Scott were close. That the pair nearly thought of themselves as father and son. He could barely imagine the emotional turmoil the professor must be going through, much less Scott himself. "And Scott's almost twenty-six now?"

"It's a thin lead and Scott's not letting his hopes get too high. We've found leads nearly as promising before and each time they've turned out to be dead ends," he said with a light hopeful smile playing across his lips. He thought it would be rather poetic if Logan's search for his past brought Scott that much closer to finding his own missing family. Perhaps it would finally get the two men to put aside their differences.

"I'll be sure to let Logan know," Kurt replied. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled by the prospect of almost having to acknowledge Scott as a relation."

Charles chuckled softly knowing what Kurt meant. "I'm sure he will. Be sure to give Logan my regards, and let him know we're doing all we can to get to the bottom of this."

"I will," Kurt assured him. "Give everyone my best, and have a goodnight."

"Goodnight," Charles returned a moment later.

Kurt held onto the phone for a moment before placing it back in its cradle. Some of the things the professor had told him had left a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. That there were scientists who, in their pride and arrogance, would attempt to create human life.

The very thought of humans treading on what was the province of God himself troubled the young German profoundly. He understood the reality, that certain advancements were necessary for their survival as a species. In today's world, if a way wasn't found to increase the amount of food that was being produced nearly a third of the human race faced a slow death by starvation. Then there were genetic diseases and defects that afflicted a large percentage of people. People doctors were desperately trying to find way to cure. He would hardly be able to call himself a good man if he was opposed to finding a way to save the lives of nearly two billion people.

No matter how he tried to rationalize it though, he just couldn't. There was no reason that he could think of that was sufficient to justify creating an artificial human.

Then there was Dawn herself. As far as he knew, she was an innocent fourteen-year-old girl in all of this. What was her reaction going to be if she discovered she was a clone of her older sister?

Since the day he was born, he had always been different from other people so he had never had to deal with what must mutants did. The day they discovered the truth and went from being a normal human to being something else entirely.

In a way he was extremely fortunate with how he grew up. No one had made him feel like a freak, or an outcast. They simply accepted him for who he was. Kurt Wagner. And for how God had made him, blue skin, with a prehensile tail, the ability to cling to walls, and teleport over long distances.

The door to the suite he was sharing with Logan crashed open and then banged shut a fraction of an instant later. Instinctively Kurt teleported out of the chair he had been lounging in with a soft pop and a wisp of smoke hanging in the air where he had been. He reappeared a heartbeat later across the room with another soft pop of displace air in a low crouch facing the doorway.

He let out a relieved breath as he spotted Logan just reaching the rooms mini bar. Upon getting a better look at the smaller man, he decided it might be in his best interest to keep himself ready to teleport at a moments notice. "I take it things did not go well?" He inquired carefully as he stood to his full height.

Logan downed the whiskey shooter with a derisive snort at Kurt's question. In a low voice he said, "Yeah. That about sums it up."

Kurt took a few cautious steps forward as Logan downed another shooter. This time tequila. "What happened?"

"I met her," Logan answered quickly then downed another shooter. "My daughter," he whispered softly as he grabbed hold of a rum shooter. "There are some words I never thought I'd hear myself saying," he muttered darkly twisting the cap off.

"And," Kurt prodded as he took another step closer. With as quickly as Logan was going through the mini bar he didn't think the feral little man would be able to stand in an hour. Either that or there wouldn't be any alcohol left.

"We talked," Logan replied knocking back the Bacardi shooter. "It was a real bonding moment between father and daughter," he added. His voice was so thick with sarcasm that it dripped from each word.

Kurt finished closing the distance as he stood abreast the shorter man. The anguish on his face was clear, as his jaw clenched and unclenched without conscious thought. "You didn't tell her then?"

Logan spun the top off another rum shooter and downed it quickly. "Don't think that I didn't want to," he answered in a quiet growl. "If I thought for a moment that I could tell them and not destroy their lives in the process. Not that it can get much worse then it is now."

He shifted his head so that his burning glare pinned the blue skin mutant to the spot, Kurt almost feels like the proverbial deer caught in a pair of bright headlights. "How do I go about telling them I couldn't be there for them because some shadow agency decided to graft a million bucks worth of adamatium to my skeleton, gave me a set of nice shiny claws, and in the process wipe out my memory of everything that happened before that time?" He lifted his right arm so his fist is in-between him and Kurt. His claws shot from between his knuckles with the soft whisk of steel sliding against steel. Logan winced almost indifferently at the pain. "If I had the bastards that took this from me they'd learn the real meaning of pain and suffering."

"Revenge isn't the solution my friend," Kurt responded hastily to Logan's last comment as his claws retract with a thought.

"Maybe not elf," Logan agreed as he lifted his third whiskey shooter, "but sometimes it's all you've got."

Kurt slapped the bottle out of Logan's hand, "My god man! You're fool," he snapped as Logan turned his baleful eyes on the normally amiable Kurt. "What was done to you was an atrocity. What was taken from you even worse. You deserve to know the truth about what happened to you, and see those that did it brought to justice, but right here and now you have a chance to regain what was stolen from you. Instead all you seem to care about is exacting your revenge. Just remember that ultimately their fate, as well as yours, is in God's hands and he'll mete out whatever punishment he deems fitting. While you're at it think about this. Your daughters deserve to know the truth just as much as you do," he said unflinchingly in the face of Logan's glare.

Taking a deep breath he waited a moment to see if Logan was going to respond. When it becomes apparent that he wasn't Kurt turned away, striding from the room. The information the professor had given him could wait a while.

Logan growled softly as Kurt left the room. He knew the elf was right, that he was being a self absorb prick. It didn't mean he had to like hearing it from somebody he barely knew. He picked up a tequila shooter and twisted the cap off before downing it. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, and he felt a slight buzz wash over him before his healing factor rushed in to flush the poison from his body. At times like this he really hates having a body that could heal almost instantly from nearly anything.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The music was loud enough that it pulsed through everything in its path; patrons, furniture, walls, ceilings, floor. The dance floor was a mass of sweating young bodies pressing close together as they try to forget about the past and not worry what the future may bring them and just live in this one instant while trying to make it last for an eternity. The strobe light blazed through a myriad of colors: brilliant blues, scintillating greens, vibrant reds, and titillating yellows. Giving the illusions that the dance floor spun on its axis as the lights fluttered and swirled in random patterns.

Amanda picked up the beer she has been drinking since the nightclub didn't serve the brandy she preferred. "Isn't this quaint," she said to Duncan as she followed him through the club as they search for a table.

"You're always saying that you like to live young?" He pointed out as he sat down at a table in the back of the room.

Amanda looked the chair over dubiously before following suit, trying not to think about what kind of acts had to have been committed on the chair to leave stains in those particular colors. "Young is one thing. This is like revisiting my adolescent without the benefit of a plague to make it enjoyable."

"I don't know," Duncan replied looking around. "This place is starting to grow on me," he added as he looked back at Amanda. "It's got atmosphere."

"One that's toxic maybe," Amanda returned studying the cloud overhead.

"Come on," he said before standing up. Without waiting for her assent Duncan took hold of Amanda's hand, "I'm in the mood to dance."

"Here," she objected as Duncan dragged her to her feet.

"You know the saying. When in Rome," he answered leading her to the dance floor.

Amanda pulled back slightly as she said, "Yes, but Romans never paid a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a pair of shoes."

Duncan looked back at her, then down at her shoes, before his gaze finally returned to her face. "Then again neither have you." His voice was so serious Amanda couldn't figure out what the Scotsman meant. He gave her hand a slight pull to get her moving again.

A man with platinum blonde hair and wearing a long black leather duster bumped into Duncan as he swayed drunkenly from side to side. He hit the highlander with enough force to knock him back a pace. How much he moved surprised Duncan, and the man strode right between his and Amanda's clasped hands. He was a lean man, with chiseled cheekbones. Duncan had a good three inches and about twenty pounds on the fellow. The man growled without ever looking up to see who he had run into.

Amanda watched the man go by, there was something strange about him but she brushed it aside. "Fine," she said as she looked back at Duncan. "One dance then we go some place with a little more class."

Spike stopped hearing the familiar voice. It had been so long since he first heard, and he'd had more then his share of alcohol tonight, but he had promised himself long ago that he would never forget that voice. Turning around he listened intently as the man he had just jostled said.

"So long as, someplace with class, doesn't include a three hour drive up to Los Angeles. I have an appointment with a local Realtor in the morning."

"Don't worry. Surprisingly there are actually some very good restaurants in this town. Nothing to compare to…" She stopped almost mid-word as a strong hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

Duncan was at her side instantly. He knew Amanda was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but something about this man that felt wrong. "I suggest you take your hand off the lady," he warned Spike in a low, dangerous voice.

"Lady," Spike snorted as he glanced at Duncan. Giving the man the once over he dismissed him, if not for the chip in his head he wouldn't even be worth that much attention. The woman on the other hand, "This is between me and chit mate," he informed Duncan with a sneer. "Ain't no concern of yours."

"If you have problem with my friend, you've got a problem with me," Duncan informed Spike. His body tensed and relaxed as he readied himself for a fight he was sure was only seconds from starting.

Spike grinned lightly. "Fine, I got a problem with you. Happy?" He asked the Scotsman.

Amanda brushed his hand away, "Who are you?" She demanded not remembering ever meeting anybody that looked like him.

"Don't remember me do you?" Spike inquired with an indifferent shrug. "Not surprising. I've changed a bit since the last time we met. You however look exactly the same… Well, except for the hair. Nice color by the way."

"You still haven't answered her question," Duncan reminded him pointedly.

"London, eighteen seventy-eight. Ringing any bells in that pretty little head of yours?" He questioned mildly miffed at her confused expression. "Just got through lifting a little old lady's jewelry. I caught up with you on Bakers Avenue some eleven blocks away. Held you at sword point while we had ourselves a nice little chit chat about property and what all, as we waited for the local bobbies. At least we did until you decided to hit me upside the head. Gotta admit it was a fancy bit a fighting, never seen anything like it at the time. Especially not from a bloody twit like you."

Amanda stared hard at the man standing in front of her with narrowed eyes. She remembered the incident that he was talking about. After all, it wasn't everyday a mortal was able to chase her over a dozen blocks of London's warren like streets and manage to trap her in a dead end alley. Yet he had, never faltering in his pursuit of her, no matter how hopeless his chase must have felt to him at the time.

She was trying to fit this brash, cocky, insolent, loud mouth braggart into the sweet, bumbling, young, and extremely naive, Victorian gentleman that had pursued her with such a dogged determination. Under most circumstances she would have found it flattering to be pursued with such zeal, but considering she had just stolen some of the most valuable jewels in all of London she hadn't been interested in so much attention.

She couldn't do it though.

Even ignoring their physical differences, such as hair color, leaner body, sharper cheeks, the scar over his eyebrow there was something fundamentally different between the two men. That young man had been nothing like this one. Even holding a sword on her, he had been the soul of Victorian courtesy to the point of inquiring of her health after such a long run despite the fact that he was the one bent at the waist panting for breath.

The man in front of her was none of those things. He was rude, arrogant; there was a definite air of brutality about him. She had the distinct impression that this man would take great personal pleasure in her demise. Possibly throw a party to celebrate the occasion. Probably throw one each and every time she died.

"William?" Amanda questions.

"It's Spike now," he answered with a quiet smirk.

Duncan looked the man over. He had mentioned meeting Amanda in eighteen seventy-eight but he wasn't immortal. After a few seconds of trying to sense the man's life force Duncan realized he couldn't. There was nothing alive inside of him to sense. It was as if there was a corpse standing in front of them, talking to them. "You know this man?" He finally asked Amanda as he took a cautious step toward her. He had no idea what type of creature they were dealing with and that was something he wasn't use to. It was making him edgy.

"You've changed," she said slowly. Like Duncan, she knew he wasn't immortal, unlike the younger immortal she didn't bother to try and sense him. She was in a state of near shock as her mind tried to put events in order. This was the second person they had encountered since coming to Sunnydale that they knew from their far past. Immortal, but without the quickening that marks their own kind.

Spike smirks at the exquisite beauty standing in front of him. He didn't know what kind of demon she was, but he knew she was a demon. That was the only thing he could think of that would explain her looking virtually identical a hundred and twenty-two years after their first meeting. The man was human. The slight jolt his chip had sent through his head when he had bumped into him earlier had told him that much.

He couldn't help but let his smile broaden. A hundred and twenty years after she had stolen his mother's most prized possessions, jewels handed down from mother to daughter for a dozen generations, he was finally going to exact his revenge. "Happens when you're dead," he said almost politely. There was a slight gleam sparkling in his eyes.

Duncan recognized the look just a fraction of a second too late. Other then his eyes lighting up Spike had given no indication that he was about to move. The punch was so fast that it was a blur to the Highlander's trained eyes. The punch lifted Amanda several feet into the air and sent her sailing back a dozen feet. She crashed onto the dance floor where people quickly back away from her still form.

As soon as Spike's fist connected with Amanda's jaw, he threw his head back, roared as he fell to the floor writhing in agony. White-hot acid bubbled under his skin, melting his flesh. He clutched his head, powerful fingers sank into his scalp as he tried to pry into his skull and root out his tormentor.

Duncan rushed to Amanda's side only vaguely aware of Spike. "Out of my way," he shouted while shoving people aside. His only concern now was keeping anyone from checking Amanda. "Let me through!" The punch had looked powerful enough to stop a bison in its tracks, just one more thing he was not use to dealing with. He planted his right knee into the hard floor as he searched for a pulse. He found it slightly amazing, not to mention disconcerting, that not a single person had made a move toward her.

He was unaware of the fact that, for the most part, everyone in the Bronze knew exactly who, and more importantly what, Spike was. That for the most part he hovered just on the edge of Buffy's inner circle of friends, and didn't seem intent on killing anyone most nights.

No one knew why Spike had given up his killing ways, only that he had. Not that anyone spoke of such things, but most everyone knew them just the same. There were rumors, there always were. Some of them were surprisingly accurate.

"She's going to be fine." For the next few minutes Duncan hoped he could keep anyone else from checking her pulse. Fortunately, a long life lends itself to a quicker recovery time so he only needed to buy a little time. "The punch only knocked her out." A deep frown burrowed his brow and cheeks as the crowd took a step back. Instead of the ease in tension he expected, they seemed even more anxious then they had a moment before. "You…" His eyes plucked a teenager wearing a Sunnydale High School varsity football jacket out of the crowd. The intensity of his gaze pinned the dark haired boy to where he stood. Duncan could just perceive a slight twitch in the boy's cheek. "…Get me a glass of water." His sharp voice and the hard glare in his brown eyes sent the youth scurrying to obey his order.

"I don't think she's thirsty mate," Spike said as he staggered to where Duncan knelt beside Amanda. He was pressing the heel of his right hand into his temple as he squinted to the point where his eyes were little more then slits. Blood trickled from his left ear and both nostrils. "And I don't think tossing it her face is going to help her too much either," he added a moment later with a smirk across his lips as he squints down at her unmoving body.

Duncan whirled on the blonde man as he rose to his feet in one smooth motion. "You have a lot of nerve," he snarled grabbing the lapels of the soft leather coat. He thought he could take the man now that he was ready for him. As long as he was on top of his game, and the man didn't have any other tricks up his sleeve. _He looks in worse shape then Amanda_, Duncan noted cynically.

Other then giving him an advantage Duncan didn't care much why that was. Ruthlessly he squashed that little piece of his conscience, tried to. Like always, it proved a difficult adversary to vanquish. It was evasive and just when he thought he had it safely locked away it always surged back stronger then before, barking at him.

Spike glanced down at the hands holding his coat through slitted eyes, a small quirk dimpling his cheeks. His tongue snaked out and licked the blood from his upper lip. He was in a mood for a bit of a fight and this Scotsman might actually be worth a go after all, but he had a killer of a headache right now and none of his limbs were working quite right at the moment. He didn't understand that; the chip had reacted to Amanda as if she was human, but he had seen her a hundred and twenty years ago. No human he's heard of has lived so long without some kind of intervention.

Shaking his head Spike ignored the questions bubbling in his brain. What was done, was done and there was no sense wishing it otherwise. He had been able to extract his vengeance on the woman that had stolen his family's jewels and that was the end of it. "Look mate, your friend's dead. Ain't nothing can be done to change that, but if you want a go, fine… We can make a bloody row of it whenever you…"

Amanda arched off the floor gasping for breath.

"Hell!" He exclaimed looking at her, "She was dead." He brushed Duncan's hands off his coat with little effort.

He tried to move past him, but Duncan moved with him saying, "No, she wasn't."

Shoving aside the pain, blocking out the weakness in his limbs, Spike grabbed Duncan by his shirt with a quick move and easily lifting him off the floor as Duncan's hand latched hold of Spike's wrist and tried to pry his hands off him. Spike's fingers wouldn't budge no matter how Duncan tried to dislodge them. A growl emanates from deep inside Spike's chest. It never moved past his lips but could clearly be heard by anyone within a few feet. "When the heart stops going pitter patter, it makes a person dead," he said in a barely audible hiss.

"And how would you know if her heart had stopped? You never checked her pulse," Duncan pointed out. He managed to hold back the shock of somebody holding him aloft as if he weighed nothing.

"Why grandma, what big ears you've got," Spike began in a little girl's pitch before switching over to harsh growl as he finished with, "all the better to hear you with."

"William," Amanda called out from where she had pushed herself into a sitting position. "Put him down and we'll talk?" Her words were more a question then a statement, but she hoped if she could say the words with enough conviction she could make William listen to her.

Spike looked at her, a slight shifting of his eyes. She had been dead. He knew that with a certainty. He wondered what it would take to kill her permanently, to put her down so she wouldn't get back up. Or if it could be done? _What if she's like those blokes out of_ _The Mummy_. _People who can't die no matter what was done to them_. Letting go of Duncan's shirt he said, "You've got a lot of explaining to do."

"All of us have got a lot of explaining to do," Amanda replied as Duncan straightened his shirt while shooting her a slight glare. She shrugged whispering, "What are we suppose to do?" She didn't enjoy this anymore then Duncan, but she couldn't see any other option. If he was as determined today as he had been a hundred years ago, there probably wasn't any way they were going to get out of town before he caught up with them.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy paced the length of the living room once more. She had been doing that since she got home nearly half an hour ago. Right after she tried reaching her father in Spain, and getting the answering machine instead. Seven strides to the far wall, seven back to entryway. She had very little to do right now but pace and leave messages for her father.

She could think, but thinking wasn't helping her accomplish anything at the moment except drive herself slowly insane. She had already lost half the foundation upon which her life had been built, and now the other half was teetering on the precipitous. Weather it was real or her reading too much from too little, she didn't know, but she needed to find out.

Turning the corner after reaching the entryway, she took the two extra steps to the hall desk and picked up the phone. She dialed the number she had called too often in the last thirty minutes, without having to look at the phone book. Her fingers simply moved as if they know the pattern by heart.

One ring, two, a third before the soft click of the answering machine picked up the phone. She listened with annoyance to her father's indifferent voice informing her that nobody was in at the moment, but if she would leave her name and telephone number after the beep he would be sure to get back to her at the earliest possible convenience.

"Dad. It's me. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Like now, it's extremely important, so call me back as soon as you get this. It doesn't matter what time I'll be up here," she finished in a rush before the line could go dead.

With a soft growl she slammed the phone back into its cradle. She stared at it, willing it to ring that very moment. Seconds stretched into minutes and still nothing. Sighing softly she closed her eyes as she let her head drop backward. Before she realized it, she had taken her first step, turned back into the pallor, and resumed her pacing. She tried to think about nothing except for what she was going to say to her father when – if – he ever returned her calls.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Everyone had gone back to what they had been doing as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place only moments earlier. Duncan had voiced his astonishment. Spike had simply told him that was Sunnydalians' reaction to everything. No matter how astounding the event if it didn't effect them directly it didn't happen. Denial was a way of life in Sunnydale according to the blonde vampire. For those that wanted to stay sane. The two immortals and vampire had given very brief synopsis of what they were over the last five minutes.

"So there's a whole bunch of you wankers running around out there that won't stay dead unless someone removes your head from your shoulders?" Spike mumbled with a shake of his head as he took a sip of his beer. "You got all of eternity; no strings attached… Why not enjoy it?"

"Its part of the game," Duncan answered softly, "the last one left wins."

"Wins what? An eternity of watching your friends grow old and die? Not exactly a prize I'd want." A slight trace of melancholy slipped into his tone as he realized that's exactly what he was in store for having fallen in love with a human.

Amanda gave her thin shoulders a slight roll as she answered, "We don't know what it is. Just that we have to battle for it."

"If that's the case why aren't the two of you outside hacking each other into bite size bits right now?" Spike inquired looking the two of them over, "You're a bit more then friends," he added reading their body language. Even if they weren't intimate with each other right now, they had been once upon a time. He could see it in how they acted and reacted to each other. "Probably have been for a long time, and you're trying to tell me that if it came down to the two of you, one of you would take the other's head?" He scoffed lightly then looked at Duncan and in an icy voice wondered, "Could you really kill a woman that means as much to you as she does?" It hadn't been all that long ago that he had made a similar offer to prove his love for Buffy. He still wasn't sure if he could have driven the stake through Drusilla's heart. He thought he could have, he had done things that most would consider far worse then staking his sire. A part of him was glad he hadn't staked her.

Duncan doesn't answer. He couldn't. He had killed a good number of friends over the centuries, when he had no other option left open to him. But to kill Amanda just because they were the last ones. He doubted that he would be able to do that no matter what the Prize turned out to be.

"Hopefully it won't come down to that," Amanda replied into Duncan's silence. Looking at William she wondered how he came to be a creature out of myth and legend. "What about you?" She asked after several seconds.

"What about me?" He snorted just before taking a deep pull off his beer.

"What's your story?" She questioned before going on to clarify her inquiry be saying, "unless I'm mistaken last time we met you weren't a vampire."


	3. Chap 3: Nothing to Say

**Chapter Three: Nothing to Say**

Kurt allows the shadows to cloak his naturally dark body as he crouches along one of the thicker tree branches all the while keeping a discrete eye on Logan's youngest daughter. He had caved far too easily when Logan asked him for a favor. He was, what most people would call gullible like that.

More so he wants to keep an eye on the young girl for himself. It was curiosity more then anything else. He wants to see if Dawn acts like other young girls her age, or if she acts differently in some way.

So far she acts about as normal as any other teenager he's ever met before. Visiting her mother's grave at night was the only oddity he had witnessed so far, but considering her sister and her father had done the same thing he could pass that off as a family trait.

Movement out of the corner of his eye draws his attention. Tensing, getting ready to teleport he watches cautiously as the young man with platinum blonde hair and a black duster approaches the young brunette. "I hope it's just dirt you're after," he says softly causing Kurt's pointed ears to strain in order to pick up his English accented words.

Dawn jumps slightly letting out a little gasp as she turns around. Kurt relaxes slightly as the brunette below him doesn't react like she's in danger from the man. She still seems tense, but not afraid.

Then the man says something that takes Kurt by surprise, "if the spell calls for anything more than that. You're into zombie territory, and that's bad news."

Dawn shakes her head vigorously as she sputters, "Spike, I. I wasn't..."

"I know good and well what you're up to," Spike cuts her off. "That book you've got is infamous."

Kurt wishes he could see the book Spike was talking about. His step mother had been a powerful witch among the gypsy's he grew up among. She had always been talking about magic, what could be done. What shouldn't. Raising the dead was among those that should never be done, no matter the reason.

"Please ... don't tell Buffy," Dawn pleads desperately. "I just ... I have to get her back. I have to," she finishes in obvious grief.

"I'm not gonna tell little bit," Spike says causing Dawn to look up at him a mixture of surprise and gratefulness written across her face. "I'm gonna help."

Kurt feels his blood run cold at the words. He could understand Dawn's need to do something like this, a grief stricken child losing her mother would latch onto anything that gave her the slightest hope of having her mother back.

"Right, if you're going to do it might as well do it proper. Pick your stuff up and come along," he says to Dawn and Kurt thinks he can detect more then just sadness in his voice.

Dawn gazes up at him for a moment with eyes full of skepticism. "Why aren't you trying to stop me?"

An almost sad, remorseful look flashes through Spike's eyes as he says, "vampire here Niblet. Despite what some people might say... I'd take Joyce back anyway I could get her."

Kurt could almost hear the lie in the vampire's tone as he spoke. He had been about to say something else before he switched. That the man was a vampire was only a partial surprise to him, he had grown up among people who told tales of vampires almost nightly.

The worst as far as he was concerned was the one where the clan had cursed a vampire with a soul so that he would suffer for his crime against the people. A soul that had been free, at peace in heaven. To rip it out, to force it to suffer for the pain the vampire had inflicted on countless people was a form of cruelty beyond anything he could imagine. Killing the beast would have been more then sufficient to exact revenge, the other was an atrocity beyond what had been done to Logan and his family.

The atrocity didn't stop there though. As retribution for the curse the vampire's clan had come back to the Gypsies that had cast the curse him and slaughtered all they came upon in a single night.

That Dawn wasn't afraid of the vampire was obvious, though what that said about her wasn't very good. Despite the fact that he didn't seem evil he was still a vampire, a creature of evil.

He gives a slight shake of his head as he refocuses in on the important part of their conversation. Raising the dead. He didn't know of anyone capable of it. Not even Janna's own mother, his step mother could do such a thing.

As silent as the shadow that he uses for cover Kurt leaps from one branch to next as he follows the pair. For a moment he wonders if he should find Logan and let him deal with this problem. The only problem with that is he has even less idea about where Logan is at the moment then he does about where Dawn and Spike are going.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Do you believe him?" Duncan questions Amanda a moment after the waiter leaves with their order. It had been over twenty-four hours since their encounter with Spike the night before and neither of them had brought up the subject of vampires or other creatures of darkness. For a moment his mind flashes back to a conversation he had nearly two hundred years ago with a supposed vampire hunter. Mr. Banes had been positive vampires along with immortals and other creatures were real even thought he had never seen one before.

"You saw him, same as I did. When his face did that whole," she sort of scrunches her eyebrows together and makes a nasty grimace which causes Duncan to laugh softly and give a slight grin. Letting her face relax she adds, "I've heard my share of stories. Twenty, twenty-five years ago I was travelling with a band of Gypsies. They had their tales."

"Gypsies always have their stories," Duncan replies. "The Cossacks had theirs as well. That's all that they are, at least that's all I ever thought they were," he adds softly.

Amanda gives a light shrug, "that's what I thought as well, but... The last band of Gypsies I was with. There was this young boy with them, someone had simple left him with them to raise. They never knew who, not that I think they tried too hard to find out."

"I take it there was something unusual about him?"

"Blue skin, pointy ears, three toes, three fingers, and a tail," she answers blithely before taking a sip of her wine as Duncan stares at her. She looks up at his stunned face asking, "that still qualifies as unusual right?"

"You're joking?" The younger immortal asks in disbelief.

Amanda shakes her head, "I'm afraid not. He was the happiest little kid I've ever seen, and talk about acrobatic. The boy could do aerials like you wouldn't believe," she finishes enthusiastically.

"What does that have to do with vampires?" Duncan questions as he puts his glass down.

"Nothing," she answers with a sigh. "I just can't help but think that the world is moving ahead of us so much faster now then it ever did before, and we're so caught up in our game that we don't even notice the changes, or how far behind the times we are."

Duncan shrugs lightly as he says, "we're centuries out dated rushing to catch up. By the time we do we're still behind the times."

"How come we've never seen them before?" She questions suddenly. "They've been around as long as we have, maybe longer. How come this is the first time that our kinds have crossed paths?"

"Who says it is?" Duncan asks swirling the wine in his glass. "I get the feeling their kind look for something specific. Something meek and docile maybe. Traits our kind aren't really known for possessing in great quantities. Plus most of us lead relatively violent lives, and I can't imagine them being much different. Specially considering what they eat."

"I'd rather not," she says looking down at the table remembering the sweet young man she had meant over a century ago. "I'd rather not think about somebody I knew becoming a cold blooded killer."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy picks up the phone and dials her father once again. As far as she knew it was about the millionth time she had tried getting a hold of him since last night. She wasn't expecting anything different this time then what she had experienced each and every time before.

So when she heard her father say, "hello," after the second ring it took her by surprise for a moment. "Hello," Hank repeats his voice displaying his annoyance.

"Hi dad," the tiny slayer answers with more then just a hint of trepidation in her own voice.

"Hi there sweetheart," Hank replies after a slight pause. His voice relaxing a little while it tightens with a different type of tension. "I'm sorry I couldn't get back in time for the funeral. Things around here have been..."

"Don't," Buffy cuts him off. Her voice was thick with anger.

"What?" Hank demands his own temper spiking slightly at Buffy's tone.

"If you need to lie to yourself about why you didn't show up for mom's funeral, fine. Just don't lie to me about it," Buffy spits out hotly. "You decided to cut us out of your life, moved to Spain so you wouldn't have to deal with us. I can deal with that," she spits out quickly before taking a deep breath that seems to calm her down. "Look, I haven't been calling just so I argue with you."

"Really. I got to say you're sounding an awful lot like your mother," he snaps back. The line was silent for several minute as neither of them say anything. Finally Hank breaks it by asking, "what did you call for then?"

Buffy hesitates a moment with no easy way to ask what she needs to ask except by just asking it. "Are you my father?" Silence. Then more silence that stretches on and on. "Well!"

She can hear a deep sigh from the other end of the phone. "So you finally found out," he says his voice losing the tension but becoming angry at the same time.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Logan comes to a stop in front of the large display window. After his talk with Kurt, and the mini bars failure to alleviate any of the uncertainty he feels he decided on going for a good long healthy walk. That had been at six o'clock this morning, now midnight was rushing towards him.

What he'd really prefer right now is a good hard nose brawl. Just about anything that wouldn't require him to think would be preferable.

He wasn't use to dealing with problems he couldn't simply bull his way through. He was use to following his instincts. Only now his instincts were pulling him in two completely different directions.

Kurt was right. He couldn't just walk away from this. They deserve to know the truth as much as he does.

Only the truth in this case might destroy whatever family they have left.

That was what he was having the problem with. How do he bring himself to destroy someone's family. Not just anyone's family, but his own daughters' family.

His nostrils flare as the wind carries the stench of death to him. He can hear the soft footfalls as they come up behind him, but there was no reflection in the window's surface. It tickles something in the back of his mind.

Logan whirls around with a snarl on his lips as he faces three human looking creatures. No heartbeats, no breathes. Dead, yet still moving.

This is just what he is looking for. Just what he needs to burn off his extra aggression. With a low savage growl rasping from his throat his claws spring from between his knuckles. A scraping sound of steel sliding against steel that causes the vampires to pause in their advance on him as uncertainty courses through them.

An instant later the short, feisty, feral mutant is in their midst. His adamatium claws tearing into undead flesh. It's a savage, brutal battle as he pits his unbreakable bones and incredible healing factor against their strength, speed, and numbers in the middle of a deserted Sunnydale street.

Mutant blood fills the air as their claws rend his flesh. Vampire body parts fall to the ground as adamatium claws sever limbs. Within moments the first vampire loses his head, filling the air with dust, a bare heartbeat after losing his leg.

They had been unprepared to face anything like Logan. Pain doesn't seem to faze him, his wounds heal nearly as soon as their made, he comes with weapons more formidable then their own, and he fights with an animalistic ferocity that they've never encountered in a human before. Even the slayer doesn't fight with the wild abandon the man their facing right now.

As the second vampire falls in much the same manner as the first the third vampire decides that desecration is the better part of valor and runs for all he's worth. Unfortunately for him blood was in the air and Logan had it's scent. His claws slide back into his forearms as he sprints after the undead beast.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"I'll get it," Tara mumbles sleepily as she squints from Willow turning on the bedside lamp in response to the soft pounding on their door. Even with her eyes partially close she can still make out the angry, red digital lights being displayed by the alarm clock. 11:05 PM.

As she slips her robe on she racks her brain trying to think of who could be up and at their dorm at eleven o'clock at night. Only there wasn't anybody that she could think of.

There was Buffy, but with how short tempered the tiny blonde had been on the phone earlier Tara really didn't think she was going to be out. She had muttered something about waiting for her father to call her back then hung up on her without even saying goodbye. All she had called to tell her was that Dawn was going to be spending the night with Anya and Xander.

She looks through the doorway peep hole and lets out a partially relief filled sigh as she sees Buffy pacing the narrow space in front of the door. "Who is it?" Willow inquires sleepily.

"Buffy," Tara answers as she unlatches the locks. Pulling open the door she greets the slayer with a sleepy, "hey," as she steps aside.

Buffy however doesn't seem to hear her as she turns towards the door. She gives a slight start, surprised to find the door open. Tara gasps softly seeing the distraught looking slayer standing in her doorway.

The petite blondes eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot as if she had just gotten through with a bout of crying. Her knuckles were raw as if she had just gotten through hitting something. There was fresh blood dripping from between the fingers of her tightly clenched left fist. Tara can only imagine how hard Buffy must be pressing her nails into her flesh in order to draw blood. Her entire posture was that of a person who had just lost everything they had ever cared about.

Before Tara can say anything though Buffy asks, "where's Dawn? There's something I need to talk with her about. It's kind of important."

"She's at Xander's," Tara responds automatically then silently curses herself for a hundred different kinds of idiot as Buffy turns to leave. Reacting instinctively she reaches out and grabs Buffy's arm hoping the powerful girl didn't simply decide to drag her along to Xander's apartment. "Buffy wait," she implores as the little blonde takes that first step.

It wasn't her voice that stops Buffy from taking the second step. It was Willow pleading voice saying, "Buffy please. If there's something wrong talk to us. We can help."

Tara feels the muscles under her hand tighten. She glances down to see the few droplets of blood have sped up dramatically. "Can you?" Buffy inquires cruelly without turning around. Both witches can almost feel the slayer's anger seething, barely contained just below the surface. "Can you find a way to restore my mom to perfect health, because right about now. That'd be a great help. Or maybe you can find a way to make my father my father again, or even just Dawn's dad. That'd help out a lot. Or you could find out why our real father disappeared over twenty years ago."

Willow shakes her head. She had never heard this kind of cold, withering animosity in Buffy's voice before. "What are you talking about?" She demands more confused then hurt by Buffy's words. "Make your father your father again. Find out why he left. You're not making any sense."

Buffy lowers her head letting go of her anger for the moment. Willow and Tara didn't deserve to feel her wrath. The only people that did were safely beyond her reach being either dead, having an ocean and several continents separating them, or suffering from a sever case of amnesia. "I'm sorry," she says turning around to face her two friends. "I just found out a couple of hours ago why my parents got divorced. Or at least the reason Hank told me," she continues with a decrepit smile. "Guess I should get use to calling him that. Wouldn't really be proper to go on calling him dad or father now would it?" The words are said lightly but both girls can hear the sadness undercutting them.

Tara gives Buffy's arm a slight tug and the petite slayer allows the witch to pull her into the room. "What happened?" The taller blonde asks as Willow closes the door behind them.

"It's kind of funny when you think about it," Buffy continues as the two witches sit her down on the edge of their bed. "I mean how were the monks suppose to know Hank wasn't my biological father when they made Dawn from a piece of me. The only two people that knew that were Hank and mom."

Willow sets a pan of warm water on a small table along with a first aid kit and some old rags just before sitting down next her best friend. "Maybe you should start at the beginning because your still making a kind of sense that isn't," she tells her as Tara gently opens Buffy's left hand with a sick grimace.

Buffy barely even feels the pain as she murmurs, "from the beginning. I felt this presence at the funeral yesterday."

"Presence?" Tara questions as she begins to clean out the wound.

"It's like what I can do with you guys. Only it was stronger, like it is with Dawn or my..."

"Your mom," Willow supplies into the pause.

Buffy nods gratefully. "It's something that comes along with the whole slayer package. Anybody I develop a close connection with, you two, Xander, Anya, Giles, Angel," she gives a slight shrug, "even Cordy. I'm usually able to tell when you guys are nearby," she explains them leaving out the two she knew would upset Willow. "With my mom and Dawn though it was there from the beginning. I could just about point at them once they get in range, maybe a mile away or so."

"But there was nothing with... Hank?" Tara asks.

Buffy shakes her head sadly as she admits, "nothing. He was always like a blank space. Then yesterday, at the funeral, it was like a lightening strike going off inside my head, and again last night. He was at the grave and we talked for awhile. He says he has amnesia," she tells them with a voice full of anger, anxiety, hopefulness. "He never knew about mom, me or Dawn," she shakes her head, "it's kind of confusing with Dawn and the fake memories. I'm kind of getting ahead of myself," she says taking a deep breath to slow herself down. "Someone who knew about us called him," her voice takes on a very angry edge as she growls, "only if they knew why didn't they tell him sooner. You see what I mean about none of it making any sense."

Willow rubs her back softly as she responds by saying, "just take your time."

Buffy snorts lightly as she quips, "easy for you to say," with a slight shake of her head. "He knew though, when we talked at the grave I know he knew. Why didn't he say anything?"

"What would you have wanted him to say? Hi there, you don't know me but I'm your father with amnesia," Willow points out in as deep of a voice as she can. Buffy smiles at her friends attempt at humor.

"Probably would have gotten a slayer fist right between the eyes," Tara adds with a scary looking punch that causes Buffy's smile to widen.

"Okay," Buffy pleads with the two witches. "So maybe it was a good thing he didn't say anything."

"You finally got a hold of Hank?" Tara asks after a couple of minutes of light silence.

Buffy nods as she says, "yeah. He gave me the full story." She takes another deep breath before she continues. "Him and mom had been best friends since high school. They had both grown up in the same neighborhood. After high school he went to UCLA and she went to Berkley, but they stayed in constant contact. She was in her second semester when she told him she had met the one," she says putting extra emphasis on the word.

"He was a motorcycle cop, part of that whole chip's thing, named Luc Everett. He pulled her over for speeding and they wound up dating. The three of them, plus whoever Hank was dating that month, hung out all the time. It was about halfway through her finally semester when he vanished, disappeared without a trace. He didn't take anything, he was just gone. They searched everywhere for him, but...

"Two months later mom found out she was pregnant with me. At first she had just thought the morning sickness and everything was caused from the stress of Luc's disappearance and the search for him. Hank was there for her and within a month they were married and when I was born they just told everyone I was premature."

"But why?" Willow questions.

"Because my mom's parents are a prehistoric jerks," Buffy answers savagely. "They would've cut her off if she had a child out of wedlock. As it turns out they pretty much cut her off anyway after she got divorced from Hank. Bunch of medieval, stone age Neanderthal's if you ask me," she mutters before stopping again to compose herself. "Thanks to the monks though Hank gets to lay the blame for the entire thing off at Dawn's feet."

"How?" Willow asks not following what Buffy was saying.

"When Dawn was ten she broke her leg pretty badly, you can still see the scar just below her knee if you look for it. In case she needed a transfusion we all donated blood, well I would have if I was older, but for some reason the doctors wound up doing a blood test and Hank found out he wasn't Dawn's father. It was about that time when I was called as the slayer and all the fighting started. They did a blood test between me and Dawn about then. It turns out we're full sisters so Hank thought Luc had shown back up and that Joyce was sleeping with him and just using him for the meal ticket." She gives a slight sigh as she shakes her head. "Like I said it's kind of funny when you stop to think about it," she finishes with a soft, almost inaudible sigh.

Willow quickly wraps her arms around her best friend as she begins to cry. Tara was quick to follow suit hugging her from the other side. The two witches making an impromptu slayer sandwich as she begins to sob, clinging to both of them.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Duncan presses a pair of buttons on the rented Oldsmobile's key chain, first unlocking the doors and then starting the car. Stepping down of the curb he begins walking towards the rental car. After only taking a few steps, from out of nowhere, a hard body slams into him at speed taking him to the ground.

"Give me those," a harsh voice growls, a fetid breath nearly causing Duncan to gag, while the man rips the keys from his hand. With a hard shove he leaps off him.

Instinctively Duncan lunges at his attacker but only comes up with air. He blinks slightly baffled by the slamming of the car door. It was over ten feet away. Duncan knew there was no way a human could cover that distance that quickly. The back up lights flash warningly in his eyes.

Muttering a slight curse Duncan throws himself out of the way as the car roars backward barely missing him. The driver swings the car around in a tight ninety degree turn as Duncan jumps to his feet and begins to give chase.

As the car speeds up, quickly pulling away from him a second figure hurls through the air. Even in the dark Duncan can recognize the Ghost. Somehow the man manages to catch hold of the car, swing himself up and around, and crash through the back window just as the car whips around a corner disappearing from sight.

Slowing down he comes to a stop. The four century old immortal knew there was no way he was going to catch up with the stolen car. He stares incredulously at the spot were he had last seen the Oldsmobile wondering what it was about Sunnydale that just attracts this kind of attention to him.

He was use to leading a fairly fast pace, hectic life. It was one of the prices that came with being an immortal. Constantly being thrown into the middle of strange, mystifying, or down right impossible situations and having to figure a way to safety that didn't cost everyone around him their lives.

But he had only been in Sunnydale three days now and each one something more outrages befalls him. Even with his patience he was finding that to be a bit much.

"I thought you were going to get the car," Amanda remarks as she slaps her white leather gloves against her palm. "Don't tell me you forgot where you parked. I swear you youngsters would forget your head if it wasn't attached," she comments playfully.

Duncan smiles tightly as he turns towards her. He opens his mouth to reply. Just then, from several blocks to the east, the sound of metal crunching and glass shattering as a car crashes into something, reaches them.

"Its this way," he informs her dryly pointing in the direction of the crash.

Amanda looks at him skeptically as she asks, "are you sure? I could swear you parked a lot closer."

"So didn't I," Duncan replies grouchily starting off in the direction of the wreck.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt's dark body blends easily into the shadows while he crawls spider like along the cavernous ceiling as he follows the platinum blonde vampire and Logan's daughter. Spike had nearly spotted him twice as him and Dawn made their way through Sunnydale. It was only because of his quick agility and ability to teleport that he had been able to keep himself out of sight.

Because of Spike's vampiric senses Kurt wasn't able to stay close enough to the duo to listen into their conversation. Trying to stay that close would have given him away easily. He didn't know just how good vampire senses were; if they were as good as Logan's, better, or worse having only legends to go on. Kurt just knew they were better then human so he was being extra careful in these enclosed tunnels.

In the distance he hears Spike's sudden exclamation, followed by Dawn's shout. Coming to a quick decision Kurt throws caution to the wind as he rushes the rest of the way down the tunnel as only he can. It quickly widens out into a large cavern. Kurt stops dead in his tracks as he takes in the sight of the incredible creature before him.

Three long almost serpentine necks that snake up out of a huge reptilian body. Each neck is capped by a large head that is mostly a mouth full of wicked looking, razor sharp teeth.

Spike was doing a good job of distracting the beast while Dawn rushes across the rocky floor away from the three headed monster. Burying a large axe in one of the creatures neck Spike rushes to join Dawn. As they start up the stairs Dawn trips dropping the egg. It breaks open leaking a bright blue fluid.

Spike reaches for Dawn saying, "leave it Dawn."

Dawn shakes her head franticly. "I can't. Mom."

"It's too dangerous and I haven't got..." Dawn quickly darts back towards the nest. "...a weapon!" Cursing himself the vampire lunges after her picking up a handful of rocks as he goes pelting the demon with them.

Dawn runs to the nest and screams as the demon confronts her. Spike wasn't going to reach her in time. Kurt could see that. Teleporting he lands next to the brunette as she grabs another football size egg. Dawn shrieks, weather because of his sudden appearance, or the monstrous head sweeping towards them Kurt didn't know. He simply grabs hold of her and teleports to relative safety at the cave opening.

She stumbles slightly as a wave of nausea passes through her. Clutching the egg to her tightly she stares wide eye at the blue skin demon standing in front of her with a dark jogging suit on. "Easy there," he says softly steadying her.

"Argh!" Spike roars as he charges him, the axe raised high over his head.

Kurt takes one look at the psychotic looking blonde charging him and decides it was about time to get out of there. Just as the axe begins to descend Kurt vanishes with a soft pop of imploding air as he leaves his trademark puff of smoke and his distinctive brimstone stench in his wake.

Spike takes a quick look around but the demon was gone despite leaving his odorous calling card. "Bloody hell," he mumbles as he wonders if he might have made a mistake. Only most of the demons he knew weren't known for having very altruistic natures and when he saw Dawn vanish in a cloud of smoke he had thought he had lost her forever. A wave of blinding rage had swept through him in that moment more intense then anything he has felt in a long time. Even worse then when he had heard about the slayer's mum dying.

"I think it's about time we got out of here," Spike says placing a hand on her elbow and guiding Dawn back to her feet as he looks around. Dawn wobbles slightly and Spike grabs hold of her again asking, "you all right?"

Dawn nods, "just feel a little sick, like I'm going to hurl from whatever that was."

"Some kind of instant transportation," Spike mutters as he guides her along. "One moment you were there and the next you were there."

"Teleportation," Dawn replies allowing Spike to support her as they cautiously walk along the slippery and uneven stairs. "Instantly moving matter between two places. Whatever it is it's passing."

"Good, because the next time you pull a bloody stupid stunt like that I'm going to string you up with your own intestines," he growls at her. Then in a softer, but far more ominous sounding voice he adds, "then I'm going to stop being nice."

The young brunette glance at Spike out of the corner of her eye. She thought she knew him well enough to know why he was threatening her. He had been scared for her safety, but he couldn't come out and say that because he was the big bad, the master vampire and it would just be unseemly for him to admit that he cares about her. Plus he was probably angry at himself for not doing a better job of protecting her. At least he hadn't threatened to tell Buffy because that would mean he was really, really angry with her.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"It was actually kind of funny," Rogue tells Logan with a light, mirthful laugh through the telephone. "Seeing everyone running around the front yard like chickens with their heads chopped off. Course at the time, when no one knew what was going on, it didn't seem so."

Logan smiles at the story. It felt good hearing about something that was relatively meaningless and being able to smile. Something that's only endearing quality was that it had made him smile. "Guess the Professor having fits," he replies.

With his hair still damp from the shower he had just gotten through taking, once he got in from his eventful evening out. Clothes torn to shreds and bloody, first from the three vampires, then his sudden departure through the cars front windshield and into the brick wall. He was starting to reconsider his position on the whole seatbelt issue. Dropping the towel he had been using to dry his chest off he grabs a cigarette and lights it while listening to Rogue. His bare feet padding silently across the plush carpeting.

"He's trying to figure how to keep it from happening again," Rogue confirms. "If he had hair I expect he'd be pulling it out by the roots."

He can just about hear the smile in her words. He can also hear the unasked questions she's dying to voice. "You know you can ask me anything that's on your mind," he reminds her gently.

There was a long silence before she finally responds by saying, "I don't even know what to ask first."

"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere," he assures.

"What're they like?" She inquires less then a beat later.

"Like a couple girls adjusting to the loss, I'd guess," he replies.

Rogue frowns slightly at his words. "You'd guess?" She demands in a sullen tone.

"I haven't actually talked to them yet," he admits guiltily.

"What?" She screeches softly. After a moment she goes on in a calmer voice. "What do you mean you haven't talked to them yet? Why not?"

"It's complicated," he answers. His voice sounding defensive even to his ears.

"What's complicated?" She prods angrily. "You're their father, they're your daughters. It seems pretty straight forward to me."

"It's not. There're other things that need to be considered."

"You're scared," she says from out of the blue. Her voice sounding small, almost insignificant as she uses two words she never thought she would ever use describing Logan. In all the time she has known him, not once has she ever thought she would see him afraid of anything.

He growls softly at the words. At the truth behind them. "You're right," he finally answers. "In my entire life there's been two things I'm good at. Taking care of myself and killing, and one of those I can barely manage to half do. How the hell am I suppose to take care of two other people?"

"Maybe you won't ever be able to make the typical dad, but you're still their father. They deserve the chance to get to know you. Just like all of us do. Any girl'd be lucky to be able to call you dad," she remarks wistfully.

"When did you get so smart?"

"Think it was right about the time I hitched a ride in the trailer behind some guys truck," she answers teasingly.

"And don't you ever let me hear tell of you pulling such a bone headed stunt again. Never know what kind of person you're going to run into out there."

"Things turned out pretty good this time."

"One in a million shot kiddo," he replies softly.

A small explosion of air and the rank odor of brimstone mark Kurt's arrival. Logan spins as he hears the young man drop to the floor. "Kurt!" He shouts seeing the blue skin mutant lying on the on the floor in a heap. His skin was pale taking on a chalky coloring.

Dropping the receiver to the floor he's at his side in an instant. He could hear his heart beating, see the rise and fall of his chest, but there was nothing like being hands on. "Kurt," Logan calls again.

The German born mutant opens his bleary eyes. "Dawn," he murmurs softly.

Logan can almost feel his heart stop beating at the words. "What's happened to her?" He demands desperately.

"Stop her... Raising Joyce. Unnatural," he mumbles.

Logan easily picks the larger man up. Carrying him to the sofa he asks, "what happened elf?"

"...ported all the way. Tired... hurry," he answers as Logan gingerly places him on the couch.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Ja mien friend... Just hurry before it's to late," Kurt urges Logan.

Logan nods, "rest easy elf," he says picking up the phone from the floor and heading for the door. "Ain't got time to talk Chuck," he says before the Professor can say anything. "I'll call back when I can," he adds hanging up the phone and dropping it back to the floor.

Still bare foot and bare chested he pulls open the door and rushes out pulling it close behind as he runs down the corridor.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy hangs up the phone worry writ across her face. She gives a slight shake of her head. "She's not there," she tells the two witches.

"I'm so sorry," Willow quickly apologizes. "She was asking so many questions, and she was so distraught and I thought it would help clear things up or maybe take her mind off things. I didn't think there was anything dangerous in that book, I swear. If I had I never would have given it to her to read," she rushes on.

"I know," Buffy replies in complete understanding. "It isn't your fault Wills, Dawn's always been very good at getting her own way."

Willow gives her best friend a look of concern asking, "do you want us to go with you?"

"No," Buffy answers after a brief pause. "This is something I need to handle on my own."

"If you need anything," Tara starts.

"You guys will be the first I call," Buffy assures them. "And thanks for tonight guys."

"Isn't that what friends are for?" The tiny redhead responds with a quick hug.

Buffy returns Willow's hug lightly, almost snapping the slightly larger girl in half. Then she embraces Tara. Pulling back she says, "I'll give you guys a call in the morning. After the sun comes up," she finishes reaching the door. Pulling it open she steps into the hallway then turns back to face the lovers adding, "have a good night guys," as she pulls the door close behind her.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Logan's lungs burn as he closes in on his destination. After sprinting the eleven miles from his suite to 1630 Revello Drive every single muscle in his body screams for rest. His bare feet pound the hard pavement, its rough surface cutting into the soles on every single step only to heal nearly as quickly.

He pushes the physical pain aside with the same will power, and pure determination to reach the house as quickly as possible.

As he closes in on the two story structure he picks up Dawn's unique scent. Mingled in with it is the scent of another vampire. His scent is strong around the house, but for the most part its a couple of days old. The only fresh scent of his split off from Dawn's little more then a half hour ago.

It was something he would have to take care of later.

Right now he has something for more important calling for his attention.

He bounds to the porch without every touching any of the steps. A quick twist of the door knob reveals it to be locked. Barely breaking stride he gives the door a hard shove forcing the obstruction open.

Stepping just inside the doorway he stops, nostrils flaring as he scents the air, the aroma of burning herbs and scented candles fill the house, but he easily locates the young brunette. That plus the terrified shriek lead him to the pallor.

Dawn was crouching low as he steps into her line of sight. She was clutching a large, thick bladed carving knife in her trembling hands as she stares wide-eyed at the hairy, bare chested man standing just on the other side of the archway. "Don't come any closer," Dawn warns trying to make her voice sound menacing but barely managing to keep must of her fear from leaking out.

Logan quickly raises his hands. "Easy there," he says soothingly trying to keep her calm.

"I'm not afraid of using this," she threatens waving the knife in his direction.

"I know," he agrees. "I'm not here to hurt you, just talk before you do something you'll regret," he adds with a pointed look at the spell components on the table.

Dawn narrows her eyes at his statement, "what's this got to do with you? I've never seen you before a minute ago," she points out angrily.

"You met a friend of mine earlier tonight," he replies lowering his hands slightly but keeping them in plain view.

Her mind instantly flips back to the blue skin demon that had saved her from the Ghora. "You're friends with that demon?"

"Kurt?" Logan questions with an amused grin at her. "The elf's no more a demon then me or you. Gypsy, mutant, acrobat," shrugs slightly, "royal pain in the ass on occasion. Usually when he's right about something. Plus one of the few truly good people I've been fortunate enough to call friend in a lot of years."

Dawn had heard of mutants before. It was nearly impossible not to hear about them. Turn on CNN any day of the week and there was another expose on them, the supposed next step in human evolution. Some were positive, some were negative, but they were all overly dramatized.

Following his instincts Logan points to the table quietly saying, "she looks like a beautiful woman."

Dawn looks to the picture on the table he's pointing at as his voice brings him back to the moment. "She is," she responds fiercely.

"Strong to," he continues trying to get her to talk about whatever was going on inside her head. "To raise two girls on her own. Not to mention running her own business."

Dawn nods silently. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she wonders why he knows so much about her mother.

"Do you think this is something she'd want you to do?"

"She didn't deserve to die!" She screams at him, her knuckles turning white as her grip tightens on the knife's hilt nearly cracking the wood.

Logan nods his head sadly as he replies by saying, "most people don't deserve to, and the ones that do seem to live forever."

"I don't want her to be dead," she cries out as she squeezes her eyes shut. "I want her to be alive. I want her to see me grow up and graduate high school and collage and fall in love and get married and have children and watch my children grow up," she rages at him. Somewhere in the middle of her desperate plea the knife falls from her hands clattering softly to the carpeted floor. Her small hands covering her eyes as she tries to physically stop the tears from flowing.

Again Logan follows his instincts. Moving quickly he catches Dawn before she can collapse to floor. Wrapping her up in his strong arms he holds her tightly as the damn of tears she's been holding back finally burst and she sobs on his shoulder. His right hand going to the back of her head smoothing her hair as he whispers soft, calming words.

Dawn wraps her arms around him and squeezes for all she is worth completely unconcerned by the fact that she is holding onto a total stranger for dear life. All she cares about is the fact that somebody real is here for her to cling to. Right now that's the only thing that matters to her.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The front door begins to swing open as Buffy pushes the key into the lock. Instantly she slips into full slayer mode, her sense expanding to a phenomenal degree as she tries to ascertain if there were any intruders inside the house. The only person in the building she could sense was Dawn, unless they were extremely gifted when it came to masking themselves. She was upstairs in her bedroom, but that was something she had known blocks away.

There was something else though. A faint trace of another presence. Something she never would have found if she wasn't searching. Logan, or Luc, or whatever his name really was. Her father, though she didn't know if she would ever be able to bring herself to call him that. No matter how much of jerk Hank was he was the one she thought of as her father.

It was hard to change twenty years worth of habit over night.

He had been here, and with her still being to feel his presence, no matter how faintly, it meant he had only just left a short time ago. She knew she could probably find him. Force a confrontation, but that wasn't going to solve anything.

Besides, Dawn was inside and she was feeling an overwhelming desire to be with her sister. For the past several days she had been functioning in full slayer mode which didn't allow things like emotions to affect her. She had been pushing Dawn away from her, foisting her off on her friends.

It wasn't fair to Dawn and it wasn't fair to her either. They should have been spending time together. Strengthening their sisterly bond not growing farther apart.

Pushing the door close behind her she makes a mental note to ask Xander to fix it in the morning. Taking a few steps into the house she looks into the pallor, the odor of burning herbs and doused candles still lingering in the air. Even in the dark Buffy can still make out the details of the room. From the looks of things all the spell components were there but the ritual hadn't been completed.

Either Logan had talked Dawn out of doing the spell or he had forced her not to complete it. Buffy didn't really see where the latter would work with Dawn. Unless it involved sturdy ropes and a gag. Even then she thought it was only about a fifty fifty chance of keeping Dawn from getting what she wants.

The back of a eight by ten picture was leaning against a huge egg. There was something written on the white backing. She reaches the table in two quick strides and picks up the picture of her mother.

Buffy. It's Logan. We met last night at Joyce's grave. There are things that we. You, me, and Dawn need to sit down and talk about. There's things I need to take care first. Two days. Then we'll talk. Logan.


	4. Chap 4: Handful of Rain

**Chapter Four: Handful of Rain**

The morning sun was just breaking over the eastern horizon, its golden light burning off the light mist hugging the ground. The first rays slipping through the slited blinds bathing the room with its warmth. Small birds flitting around, chirping and twittering, just outside the window give the semblance of peaceful tranquility.

It's a false tranquility. Buffy can feel it as she watches the first tendrils of sunlight splash over Dawn's light golden brown hair. The blonde slayer can sense the storm hovering on the edge of Sunnydale threatening to break over the unsuspecting town unleashing a deluge like she has never seen before. Which considering her life in Sunnydale, the things she has had to face since coming here was a feat in and of itself.

Dawn stirs lightly in Buffy's bed causing the petite blonde to tense as she shifts moving slightly away from the wall she's currently leaning against. She wonders if this was going to be the time her baby sister woke up. She had made a promise to herself last night to tell Dawn everything she has found out over the previous... She thought it was two days, but she hasn't slept since the funeral and time was beginning to bleed together on her.

She had kept things from Dawn in the past, a lot of stuff recently and it had all blown up in her face. Slitting her wrist, ditching school. Buffy felt extremely fortunate to still have a little sister.

Dawn snuggles back down into the pillow, somehow managing to hitch the thick comforter up a little higher without the use of her hands.

Buffy smiles a little enviously at her deeply, how innocently the young girl lying on her bed can sleep as she herself settles back against the wall. It had been quite a few years since she was able to sleep like that. Slayer dreams being what they were.

With a sharp gasp calling out, "Mom," Dawn bolts upright in bed, eyes wide and a horrified expression plastering her face.

Buffy's at her side in less then a heartbeat, wrapping the young girl up in her strong arms. "Shh, Shh. It's okay, everything's okay. I've got you now, everything's going to be alright." She gently soothes Dawn as her right hand strokes her long hair as she rocks back and forth.

Dawn's sobs wreck her body as she cries, tears spilling down her cheeks as she softly murmurs, "I was going to..." She begins as she wraps her own thin arms around Buffy.

"I know," Buffy responds urgently not letting Dawn finish as she tightens her hold slightly letting the young girl know that no matter what she will always be there for her.

"You weren't here... And I was all alone, and I was hurting so much, and you weren't here and I knew if mommy was here then everything would be better, and... And..."

Buffy tightens her embrace once again pulling Dawn even closer to her as she continues the gentle rocking motion. "I'm sorry," she says placing a soft kiss on the top of Dawn's head. "I'm so sorry for not being here when you need me so much, for being so wrapped up in my own grief I neglected you and yours," she says softly biting back her own tears.

Time seems to stand still for the two sisters as they hold on to each other. It loses all meaning as the tranquility slowly flows back into the moment. It's only after the first strong gust of wind that blows past that Buffy realizes that the storm has been surging forward, drawing nearer to them. Not much, no more then inches, but she can feel it looming, hovering that much closer now.

Reluctantly Dawn pulls back out of the embrace slightly as she gingerly wipes her eyes with the heel off her hand. Managing to draw up what little courage she has she manages to look her older sister in the eye. "I almost finished the spell," she says in a weak, still sniveling voice.

The tiny slayer continues to stroke Dawn's long hair as she softly replies saying, "I saw. What happened?" Dawn looks down as she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. "It's okay, I promise... No getting mad, no giving lectures, at least not right away, and only a weeks grounding for trying to raise the dead... Pending apocalypse," she manages to say with a slight air levity.

Dawn smiles weakly as she shifts back a little creating a small amount of space between the two of them. Looking at her older sister she starts off saying, "it all started the other day at Willow and Tara's."

She tells the story simply. Of first uncovering the spell to beginning it downstairs in the pallor. She carefully embellishes certain parts of the story. Spike was left completely out, she never went to the Doc, the Ghora demon had been asleep when she snuck into its lair to steal the egg, waking up after she had her prize in hand. She made sure to emphasize the point that the blue skinned man that had saved her was a mutant and not a demon. At least that was what the short, hairy man who had convinced her not to do the spell claims.

"Who is he Buffy? Why would he care if I resurrected mom?" She finishes asking Buffy the question she has been dreading.

Buffy knew she didn't really have a choice in telling Dawn or not. It wasn't like Hank was going to keep up the pretense any more, not that he had been doing that great of a job in the first place. Plus Logan seems to want to be a part of their lives, but was it just a lark for him or was he committed to being their... Father, guardian, caretaker. Was it a way for him to assuage whatever guilt he felt for not being there for them, or was he going to try to cram twenty years parenting into a month.

Since there was no easy to say it she decides to treat it like removing a band aid. One quick, sharp jerk and by the time you felt any pain the bandage was gone. "He's our father," she informs Dawn in a dead calm voice.

The brunette barks a short laugh as she responds with, "ha. Good one Buffy. You haven't by chance gotten hit one too many times on the head have you?"

Buffy shakes her head as she says, "no joke Dawn. Dad told me the entire story last night."

Dawn gives a short jerk of her head as her eyes harden. "You're lying," she spits out.

"Dawn," Buffy pleads reaching out for her.

She scurries backwards, away from Buffy as she shouts, " you're lying! You've taken everything else away from me, mom wasn't really mine! You're not really my sister so why not take this away..."

Buffy lunges forward, faster then Dawn can follow, grabbing hold of the distraught girl. "Stop it! Just stop it Dawn!" She growls roughly given her a slight shake. "You are my sister," she begins slowly emphasizing each word. "I don't care that I didn't grow up with you at my side, I love you. More then anything, just like mom. It doesn't matter how you started out, all that matters is that you're here now. That's it, nothing else. Do you understand me?"

Dawn blinks, fighting to hold back another flood of tears as she silently works her jaw. Ever since last night it seems like the only thing she's capable of doing is crying. She feels like such a little baby. She should be stronger, like Buffy. She never cries.

She nods silently, not being able to form the words. Again Buffy pulls the young girl to her, lending her whatever strength she needs to fight her way through the turbulent emotions raging in her body right now.

With a clarity that frightens her she can almost see the thick, heavy, black storm clouds. Crackling and bursting with a devastating unspent fury rushing towards her.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Logan slips out of Kurt's room without making a sound, closing the door behind him silently. Somehow the young mutant had gotten himself from the couch to his bed after he left last night and was now sleeping peacefully. Checking in on him had been the first thing he had done this morning after getting in.

He had followed that up with a phone call to Xavier. Unsurprisingly the powerful telepath had been awake. The man had a seemingly inexhaustible constitution, one that impresses even him.

They had spent nearly an hour on the phone exchanging information. Logan told his benefactor what had taken place last night, everything he had been able to piece together from Kurt and Dawn. He didn't mention anything about him chasing a vampire all over Sunnydale and causing one heck of a car wreck.

According to Xavier he hadn't been able to uncover any successful human clones. Attempts had been made, but so far nothing that would be called viable had resulted and all of those had been destroyed once it was realized. Aside from that the professor didn't really having any new information for him, which in a way was good by the simple fact it wasn't bad.

News for Scott was better. Right now he was in Madrid meeting with Hank Summers. Logan was actually glad Scott was finding his family. No one should have to go through life wondering who they were, or where they came from.

His only hope was that he never comes face to face with the man who had in fact been his daughters father for so many years. No he really didn't think it would be very good for Hank Summers continued good health for the two of them to meet any time in the foreseeable future. Maybe if they were both still around at the turn of the century.

The man had been married to Joyce for nearly sixteen years, had been Dawn and Buffy's dad. Weather he knew he was their father or not, that alone should have been enough to bring him here. He had taken on the responsibility knowingly or not. It wasn't an obligation you could shrug off when it no longer suits you, yet the man couldn't even take a few weeks out of his life to help them deal with the grief of losing their mother. A stabilizing influence. If he had been here then maybe Dawn wouldn't have been a hairsbreadth away from raising the dead.

He knew he should have been shocked to find out it was possible to raise the dead. Just as he should have felt a certain amount of amazement at discovering vampires aren't just creatures out of myth and legend, but are in fact living, or unliving beings.

Only he wasn't. They tug at something deep inside of him. Not his mind, but his gut and both things set his blood to a hard boil.

Which reminds him.

There was a certain vampire that needs to be dissuaded from hovering around his girls.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Duncan pulls the loose fitting china white turtle neck over his head as Amanda taps on his door. At least he thought it was Amanda since he hadn't felt any other immortals in town, but that didn't mean one couldn't show up unexpectedly. And a careless immortal was soon a dead immortal.

Slipping his sword from the special hostler sewn into the lining of his coat he moves towards the door the flat of his blade resting against the back of his arm as he calls out, "come in."

The knob turns and the door swings inward as the blonde beauty pushes it open. Taking in the sword in his hand, along with the rest of his casual attire she politely questions him asking, "expecting someone else?"

She's lived three times longer then her Scottish companion with the same dread buried deep in her gut. She understands the caution it requires to live just one year in their lives never mind the centuries they've survived. It ingrains a certain wariness deep into your bones and after a few decades your guard never truly lowers again. Not even around your closest friends.

Duncan shrugs somehow managing to look both unabashed and repentant all at the same time. Admiring Amanda's nearly flawless beauty he takes her in from head to toe; her black heels, teal slacks, a silk lavender wrap around blouse, and a thigh length white leather overcoat. "You're looking good," he tells her approvingly.

Amanda grins like the cat that stole the cream. They had been lovers off and on for centuries and while they were currently in the off again phase of their relationship his opinion still means a lot to her. He, however, didn't need to know that so she asks, "that's it? I only look good," she finishes in a dark murmur.

He smiles causing his face to becoming even more charming and disarming, if that was possible, as he decides to play her game. "Would you settle for exquisite?"

Tapping a finger across her lips she makes a show of pondering his alternative phrasing. "Well, I was originally going for divine..."

He gives her a deeper, more appraising, almost disparaging look as he teasingly replies saying, "then I think you missed the mark."

"...but then I decided I didn't want to blind the mortal population of Sunnydale so I settled for striking," she finishes ignoring his comment.

"In that case you pulled it off spectacularly," he says a moment before grabbing his suede duster. With an easy grace from years of experience he slips his sword back into its little hidey-hole.

"What'd the rental company say?" She asks figuring their previous, and her favorite subject, her, had been exhausted for the moment.

"They dropped a new car off at dawn," he answers.

She shudders while muttering, "people are actually up that early?"

The remark earns another light smile from Duncan. "Amazingly enough there are actually people that climb out bed before the sun rises," he teases easily.

"I'd heard rumors, but... I never thought they could be real," she responds in fake disgust.

"It's the blue Taurus," he informs her slipping his coat on. "You ready?"

"What are we casing again?" She inquires casually until she sees his disapproving scowl. "All right, all right," she adds hastily. True she was making an honest attempt to give up her life of crime, but like her relationship with Duncan it was an on again off again proposition that was stuck in the off again position at present.

"Talked to the realtor yesterday, told her my interest, what I've been involved in recently..." She looks up, about to say something, sees his look and wisely keeps her mouth close. "...and we set up a meeting for this morning."

"In other wards you have absolutely no idea?"

"None what's so ever," he agrees.

Amanda frowns slightly as she says, "I understand you feeling like you have a responsibility towards Dawn. We were the ones to discover her, but is it really necessary to uproot yourself and move all the way out here?"

"It's more then just about keeping an eye on Dawn. Making sure that any other immortal that finds her will have to go through me to get to her head," he responds softly. With a slight shake of his head he continues, "after the decade I've had. All the people that I've lost. Fitzcarin, Darius, Richie, Tessa, Conner," each name is said softly with the last being the softest of all. "I need to get out of the game for awhile, live a generation or so. As Richie would've said, recharge my batteries," he finishes pulling the door to the hallway open.

"And the fact Sunnydale has nearly as much Holy ground as any major city the size of New York in a hundredth of the space?"

"Is convenient," he answers.

She shrugs lightly stepping into the hall. "It's not going to stop them from coming," she points out.

"I know," he responds pulling the door close behind them.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The crypt was silent, almost completely soundless. The only noise coming from the soft scuffs of Spike's restless pacing as he ponders what had happened after he left Dawn at her front step.

She hadn't done the spell.

At least he hadn't heard about any major mojo taking place last night. He can only hope that she came to her senses after he left. He'd settle for just not having the balls to walk on the dark side, but after her fool hardy stunt with the Ghora demon egg he suspects she has a pair of brass ones the same size as big sis.

What he really wants to do right now is head over to the Summers' house. Check up on the two girls. Make sure everything is okay.

Only that would tip the slayer off that he was involved with the spell her sister had attempted. Not something he was prepared to do. It was a tad bit cowardly, but trying to explain to a brass off Slayer that he was just trying to keep her sister safe wasn't going to do anything to extend his life.

He wonders if that was the reason why there was no spell. Maybe the Slayer came home and put her foot down, squashed the Niblet's plan in the eleventh hour. If that was the case would Dawn give him up.

He'd like to believe no, but...

It might be better for him if he got ready to make a hasty exit just in case Buffy came here looking for her pound of flesh. He hates the thought of giving up his crypt, especially when he just got everything set up exactly how he likes it.

Of course there was nothing saying he couldn't move back in once the heat was off in a couple weeks.

Maybe he'd spend his time tracking down that blue skin demon that literally vanishes in a puff of sulphurous smoke. Spike figures he must have been following them all night. Sticking to the shadows where his natural coloring and dark clothes would melt right in. Plus he had stayed far enough back where his scent wouldn't be spotted.

His coming to Dawn's rescue though.

The only reason he could come up with was someone knew Dawn was the key. Who knew and how did they find out.

He doubts if it was Glory. Once that bloody bint gets that information she was going to show up herself and take the Niblet. Maybe even...

His thoughts stop as the door bangs open spilling golden sunlight across the floor of his crypt silhouetting a dark shape standing in his doorway. Putting a hand up above his eyes Spike squints into the glaring light trying to see who it is.

A little taller then Buffy, not by much, mostly due in part to his dark upswept hair. Broader through the shoulders with a very masculine frame.

He wasn't able to make out a lot of details, aside from the clothing. White tank top, dark jeans, and well worn hiking boots. There was something vaguely familiar about his scent. Like he spotted it somewhere recently only he couldn't remember where.

A sound, a light whisking, like the edge of a blade being run across a sharpening stone screeches inside the crypt as a set of nearly foot long claws glint in the harsh light as they spring forward from between his knuckles.

"Bloody hell," Spike groans softly. This was the last thing he needs to deal with today.

"I got a bone to pick with you bub," Logan growls in a low voice.

Spike tosses his nearly spent cigarette to the floor as he grumbles, "take a number and wait in line like everyone else."

"Never been a very patient man," he says stepping into the crypt.

"Then step right up," Spike says spreading his hands.

With a primitive growl Logan surges forward covering the distance between him and Spike in the blink of an eye. His black jeans nearly bursting at the seams as powerful muscles strain in the restricting fabric.

His superhuman speed confirming in Spike's mind what the claws from the back of his hand hint at. The blonde vampire was getting tired of these loan sharks sending second rate demons to strong arm him. Occasionally it might take him awhile to pay off a dept, but he always did.

Eventually.

Logan sails through the air, arms wide. Spike's fist catches him square in the chest, driving him to the other side of the stone sarcophagus, as pure agony whiplashes through his skull. "Aargh!" He screams clutching his head, toppling back over in pain. "What the bloody..." It was twice in the last few days he was positive he was facing a demon that turns out to be human.

Logan gets groggily to his feet. A hoarse scream still filling his ears, a loud pain filled roar, but he doesn't remember crying out. Thankful, but still cursing the adamatium bonded to his skeleton. If not for the indestructible metal he was positive the vampire's punch would have gone clean through his chest. He hadn't been expecting that kind of speed. Nor the strength behind the punch.

It made the vampires he had fought last night seem like toddlers in comparison.

Not that it matters much to him. A vampire is a vampire is a vampire and this one was going to be just as dead as the ones he killed last night.

Even if it takes him the rest of the day and all night.

Spike looks up at the scuffling sound just in time to see the human hop up onto the tombs lid. Crouched as he was, ready to pounce with an animalistic snarl smeared over his face, Spike could almost convince himself the man was truly a wolf wrapped in a man's skin.

Spike knew the man should have been dead. He had hit him hard enough to crumple an I beam and his hand feels like he had punched one, but the man looks perfectly fine.

"Wonderful," Spike growls his migraine was a dull throb just behind his eyes. "First immortals, now Rufus the wonder runt," he mumbles to himself as Logan launches himself at the prone vampire, claws extended out in front.

Spike grabs hold of his wrist, making sure to keep those dangerous looking claws away from his delicate flesh. His feet kick up lightly connecting with the feral little man's gut sending another brief flash of pain lancing through his skull.

It didn't matter, against someone like this he was going to have to fight through the pain. Ride it out long enough to survive.

It wasn't like the whelp or soldier boy trying to prove what tough guys they were by bullying the cripple. This man, for whatever reason, didn't want anything except for Spike's death.

The kick sends Logan flipping over and Spike rolls backward landing on top of him straddling his stomach. Some time during the roll Spike lost his grip on Logan's right wrist. An arm that suddenly slashes towards his head. Spike weaves his head out of the way just in time to avoid being decapitated, but the super dense steel still scores a deep, but otherwise meaningless hit along his chest.

Spike growls savagely as he smacks Logan arm away with bone crushing force and damn the pain. He realizes fighting defensively against this man was just going to get him killed inch by agonizing inch. A blazing heartbeat later his fist smashes into Logan's jaw. Spike jerks his hand back as if he just punched a foot thick plate of solid steel.

Which pales compared to the pounding in his skull.

He levers himself off Logan and staggers away. He needs to find something to end this fight. Or bring it to a grinding halt while giving himself a chance to recover from the driving pain exploding through his skull.

Logan shakes his head feeling as if he just got hit with a tree trunk. Then he remembers what that feels like from when Sabertooth nearly took his head off with one. This was at least twice that, fortunately he hasn't just been thrown through the windshield of a speeding truck before skidding to stop some thirty feet away.

A loud scraping sound rings in his ears as he tries to push the haze aside. He manages to pry his eyelids open just in time to see the heavy stone coffin lid come crashing down on top of him.

"Aaarrghh!" Spike finally screams, his back arching nearly in half, his fingers digging into his head as the pure blazing agony within his skull reaches a unendurable point. Blood seeps from his nose. The corners of his eyes. Even his ears as tiny blood vessels inside his brain burst. He topples over backwards, falling behind sarcophagus, unconscious before he hits the ground, but safely out of the suns deadly rays.

With the two men lying unmoving, unconscious on the crypts stone floor an almost unnatural silence descends upon Spike's home.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"No," Duncan murmurs flipping through the listing. Restaurants had never really been his forte, unless he was dining. "No," newspapers were too political now. Plus there was a fine line between reporting the news and becoming the news. "No, no, no," he finishes leaning back in the well cushioned chair rubbing at his temples.

"Perhaps if you told me what you're looking for Mr. McCleod I'd be better able to facilitate your search," Mrs. Sistrin advises patiently.

"You're doing a wonderful job," Amanda warmly assures the slightly plump young woman with thin purple frame glasses. Her almost but not quite black hair ends just below her shoulders with a small curve to the tips. Despite the heaviness of her face she was still a highly attractive woman, mostly because of the smoothness of her cheeks and her alert green eyes. "Duncan can just be a trifle difficult," she says placing special emphasis on the word, "when these moods take him."

Duncan sighs, a light exhale. He knew bringing Amanda was asking for trouble and he was right. Her wit, as well as her exceedingly sharp tongue ready, willing, and able to prick little holes in his ego whenever she decides it is necessary. Weather it was or not.

Overall though he was glad he brought her. She kept the long hours from dragging by and managed to keep his mood light all at the same time. Not an easy task on days like today. When he was searching for something without really knowing what he was searching for.

"I'll know what I'm looking for when I see it," he informs them straightening back up in his chair.

"You see what I mean," she whispers conspiratorial.

Mrs. Sistrin smiles blandly.

"This one," Duncan says suddenly pulling the page from folder and shoving it at her.

She takes it from him gingerly, as if it were a live adder she was taking hold of. Looking over the details of the property he wants to purchase she blinks several times. "This could take some time, there's a lean against the property..."

Duncan stands up. Just that and she falls silent under his intent gaze. "I don't care what it cost. I'll pay the damn lean myself if necessary," he finishes in voice filled with steel.

Amanda deftly plucks the piece of paper from the woman's numb fingers. She herself had been on the receiving end of that gaze more times then she cares to remember. She nods mildly, a semi pleased smile on her face. It made sense for him to want this, plus with the terms he was demanding to be put into place.

It was classic Duncan. Noble to a fault.

Mrs. Sistrin obviously didn't understand why Duncan wants things arranged the way he does, but he was worth too much money for her to argue with him. If the woman only knew that what she thought was a fortune wasn't even a tenth of Duncan McCleod's true value.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The sun is just beginning to slide down from it's noon day peak. Warming the otherwise chilly March air. Inside the Magic Box the frost in the air is caused by something completely unrelated to the weather, or the season, or any other meteorological reason.

Even with seven people in the room barely a sound was made. Silence wasn't a strong enough word for the quiet that permeates the building. Deafening might be closer.

Xander takes a deep breath as he runs his right hand through his hair. He opens his mouth to say something, but then changes his mind closing it.

Anya leans into Xander and in a quiet voice that could still be heard by everyone in the small room asks, "are we suppose to be upset because their father isn't really their father?" A confused furrow creasing her brow she adds, "because exchanging one dead beat dad for another," she finishes with a slight shrug.

"He had amnesia Anya," Xander explains with strained patience.

The ex-vengeance demon shrugs again eloquently expressing her, that's no excuse, opinion. Turning her attention to Buffy and Dawn she says, "just so you know I have a friend that deals with these kinds of situations... Well not exactly like this, but close enough. If you want I can give her chant, have her stop by your house."

"Thanks Anya, but I don't think that's going to be necessary," Buffy says straining to keep the small smile from her lips. Trust Anya to offer a slayer the aid of a vengeance demon. Her heart was in the right place and she meant well, but she still thought like the demon she had been for twelve hundred years. "I'll be sure to keep it mind though. Just in case," she adds hoping she didn't take matters into her own hands.

Anya beams at the comment pleased that she was able to help.

"This is quite..." Giles begins haltingly before he stops. "How are the two of you holding up?" He asks instead of what he was originally going to say.

Buffy rolls her shoulders lightly not being one to overly share her emotional baggage. At least not in a group this large. "Adjusting," she admits.

"I can't even imagine," Xander remarks with a slow head shake. "I wish I could, my dad being... My dad. But your father, he was great, you know. When he was around which really wasn't that often, so not so great... And I'll just be shutting up now since I'm finding it kind of hard to talk now that I've manage to get both feet in my mouth," he trails off under everyone's watching eyes.

"I'm still not sure its real," Dawn says into the silence. Her eyes far away, not really looking at anyone. "I keep thinking that I'm asleep and this is all some strange dream that I'm going to wake from any minute. Then when I don't... It kind of hits me that its really real. Then a few minutes go by and starts all over again," she finishes with a few tears sliding down her cheeks.

Tara quickly gets up from her seat next Willow and moves to the young brunette's side. "It's going to be alright sweetie," she assures Dawn in low, yet confident, almost mothering whisper as she gathers the tiny girl into her warm embrace, gently stroking her long hair.

Buffy feels a stab of jealousy course through her seeing Tara's caring interaction with her sister but quashes it. Its the emotional support Dawn needs right now. Support that she, no matter how much she wants to, can't provide for the younger girl.

Its time like this when she hates being the slayer the most. Hates the fact that she has to have a near meltdown in order to cry. Hates that she can't feel pity or remorse or love, not like she had been able to once upon a time. Because emotions like that would make her weak in her constant battle against the forces of darkness. Hates the fact that the only thing she can feel most of the time is a desire to hunt, to kill, to take out her anger and frustrations on the demons that have ruined her life.

Giles steps closer to Buffy pulling her attention to him. "How are you planning on proceeding?" He inquires delicately having no desire to cause the young woman any more distress then she was already feeling.

"Meet him, either tomorrow or the next day," she answers in a hushed tone equal to Giles. "His note wasn't all that clear just saying he had a few things to take care of."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

She rolls her shoulder's lightly before saying, "probably not, but nobody's ever really accused me of being wise so why start now?"

Giles just manages to keep the sharp glare out of his eyes. Only just, but he still manages it. "You have to be circumspect on who you allow into your life. Even under the best of times, which these definitely aren't. For all you know he's nothing more then an agent of Glory's whom has come up with a semi convincing contrivance design to lure..."

He stops speaking, wincing slightly, as Buffy lean, but strong, fingers wrap around his bicep in a powerful vice like grip. "He's my father," she hisses in a soft growl.

"You don't know that," he says undaunted.

"Yes. I do," she replies with a voice as hard as iron.

"Buffy," Willow calls out in her soft, but urgent and assertive voice. "Maybe you should tell him the rest?" She suggest timidly.

"The rest?" Giles murmurs mildly confused by Willow's declaration.

At the same time a concise thought rings in Xander's head as he glances at Willow. "You already know about this," he blurts unaccusingly. The statement causing a slight blush to color Willow's cheeks from the fact she had kept this information from Xander. "How come you always know more then me?" He inquires with a plaintive whine.

Anya pats Xander's knee as she answers his question with a simple, "she's smarter then you are honey. Remember?"

Xander grimaces at the comment but before he can say anything Willow answers his question. "Buffy told us last night when she came to pick Dawn. It was just one of those spontaneous female bonding moments," she explains succinctly without revealing what happened.

Buffy inhales deeply as she takes a look around at her assembled friends. "I know when you guys are close... Kind of like a blip on the radar screen," she tells them in a rush.

Giles blinks owlishly as he mumbles, "this is... Its unheard of is what it is..." He continues to mumble softly before he lifts his eyes locking them with Buffy. "Have you always been able to do this?" He questions in a stern voice.

"With my family, ever since I was called," she replies slowly not liking Giles reaction. "Other people... There has to be some sort of bond, like with you guys. But its still not as strong."

"Even me?" Anya questions sounding hopeful. Almost anxious.

Buffy smiles at the ex-vengeance demon. "Yes, Anya. Even you," she answers warmly causing a huge luminescent smile to split her face nearly in two. Turning her attention back to Giles she continues to match his steely gaze with one of her own. "What's the big? Its all part of the slayer package."

Giles gives his head a light shake pulling his eyes away from her inquisitive light colored orbs. "Of course," he manages to say unable to tell her any different. To the best of his knowledge there has never been a slayer able to do what she just described. Sense demons and vampires yes, but the ability to locate people in a similar fashion is unheard of. Now the task at hand is finding out where it comes from. "I'm assuming this is how you confirmed the man, Logan or Luc, is your father?"

"Yeah," Buffy answers with a slight nod. "I need a favor Giles," she pleads quietly. Taking a deep breath she goes on saying, "I need you to find out everything you can about Logan, Luc Everett, both of them."

"Of course," Giles replies. "The Council isn't really designed for this, but they do have access to a vast amount of resources. If anyone can find something about him they can," he finishes. Not seeing any reason to tell Buffy he was planning on having the Council do exactly that anyway.

Buffy gives him a sharp nod and a grateful smile as she says, "thanks Giles. You know you're the best right?"

The recently reinstated watcher shrugs uncomfortably. "Occasionally its nice for someone to say so," he replies slipping the glasses off his nose to wipe the lenses down.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The high sun beating down from the cloudless sky does little to alleviate the slight chill in the air. Despite the low temperature there was still a good crowd in the open air cafe, The Expresso Pump. Amanda takes a casual look around at the high school and collage age customers sitting around at the smallish steel lace and glass top tables in their tall, low back stools.

"God," she murmurs climbing into her chair, "but I feel old."

Duncan smiles knowing he could go either way with his rejoinder as he slides into his chair. Deciding to play it safe he replies saying, "and you're still the most beautiful woman in the hemisphere."

Amanda rolls her eyes slightly. "He says in an attempt to butter up the radiant beauty majestically sipping her latte," she remarks raising her wax lined cardboard cup.

"Now why would I need to do that?" He questions inquiringly as he pries the lid off his own cup.

Amanda smiles sweetly as her eyelashes flutter affectionately. "Because you need someone to fly all over the world acquiring your acquisitions, and who knows more about acquiring things then moi? Plus who are you going to find who knows more about high quality antiques then..."

"Then a high quality antique?" He cuts in unable to resist the temptation. A dark scowl flashes across her face a moment before her foot lashes out and solidly kicks Duncan in the shin. He manages to bite back the yelp that threatens to jump out of his throat. After taking a gulp of his coffee he looks back at her. "You do realize when I talk about acquiring a piece of art, it doesn't require breaking and entering, repelling harnesses, ropes, lockpicks, blue prints, or anything that you normally pack to acquire something?"

She smiles a little too pleasantly for his peace of mind. There's a slight gleam in her eyes as she says, "just access to your credit line."

Duncan blanches slightly at the comment. "You know maybe we should rethink this arrangement, or possibly get something written down."

"Ppssh," she breathes out before taking a sip of her latte. "we're going to make a great team. You get to stay here, play the hero while taking a break from the game. I get to fly all over the world buying expensive things for a fraction of their actual value. We both get what we want."

"You want to know why I bought The Gallery?" He asks after a brief pause.

Amanda shakes her head slightly as she says, "I already know why you did it. You never have been able to resist a damsel in distress. It's one of your more endearing qualities."

"You mean I have more then one?" He asks with a slim smile that doesn't come close to touching his eyes.

She gives him a smug smirk as her eyes travel downward. "A few," she informs him knowingly.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A slow trickle of water splashing over his face brings Logan back to consciousness and the crushing weight bearing down on his chest welcomes him. Shaking his head furiously he spits the rancid water out of his mouth.

"Well look who's finally awake," Spike mutters upending the tin cup and dumping the rest of the sewage water out on to Logan's face. "A fairly impressive feat considering that's a good ton of rock sitting on your chest there. Way I figure it most humans be pushing daisies up right about now. Means there's something about you that'll probably keep you alive through a lot..."

"Why don't you do us both a favor and jump in a vat of holy water," Logan growls through the crushing weight on his chest and the burning sensation in his legs.

Spike laughs at the comment. "I like you," he says with amusement.

"I'm thrilled."

"Should be. Aren't too many blokes I can say that about," he says hopping heavily on top of the stone causing Logan to grunt in pain. He squats down bringing himself that much closer to the dark eye stranger pinned beneath him. "Which is why I'm kinda hoping you'll just tell me which one of those sniveling ponce little blighters doesn't understand the meaning of kitten lending. It'd be kind of hard collecting what I owe if you..." Spike stops talking as he realizes the braying sounds Logan is making is actually laughter. "What're you finding so amusing?"

"You," Logan hisses. "Thinking the local mook hired me to kill you."

He narrows his eyes on the man as he asks, "if they didn't send you then just who the bloody hell did?"

"Nobody sent me," he snarls straining to shift his body under the weight sitting on top of him. "You think you can stalk my girls, almost get Dawn killed on your fool quest to get Joyce back, and I'm not going to do the world a favor by taking you out of it!" He shouts as he continues to squirm under the stone.

Spike's mind seems to spiral out of control with the revelation that this was Dawn and Buffy's father. Hank Summers, the man who couldn't even show up for his ex-wife's funeral. "You've got some bloody nerve," he growls. "Haven't taken an interest in your own nippers for four years. Don't even know half of what's going on in their lives, none of the sodding muck they go through day in and day out cause of who they are."

He jumps off the lid and begins prowling the small confines of his crypt. "I've been there, stood by the Slayer's side in some of her darkest times. Helped her save the world a time or two no less and where have you been? Off in L.A. or Spain having a gay old romp with a secretary half your age..."

He stops again as he takes a close look at Logan and his hard, but extremely youthful face. A look of pure disgust washes over his face as he snarls, "you sick bastard. Was she at least out of diapers?"

Logan stares up at the indignant, vehemently venting vampire, incredulously. It wasn't that hard to figure out why the vampire was so incensed, even if it was baffling.

He thought Logan was Hank Summers, a nearly forty old man who hasn't seen his children in four years, nearly half a decade. Logan also knows if he looks anywhere close to thirty he was doing good.

That wasn't what had him staring up at him though. It was the unadulterated emotion in his voice. It was fiery, impassioned, full of life. His eyes were the same. They weren't like the dead eyes he had seen in the vampires last night.

His instincts were still screaming at him to gut this undead creature standing above him. But he was more then just an animal running on blind instincts. He was a man who could think and plan and come to rational decisions.

There was something fundamentally different with this vampire. Something that separated him from the others of his kind.

Logan felt as if there might be something important going on here. Something that it might be better if he didn't interfere with no matter how much he wants to.

"I'm not Hank Summers," Logan snarls bringing Spike's rant to a grinding halt.

"You just said you were the Slayer and the Niblet's patter?" Spike replies suspiciously. He had been getting rather graphic in just what he was going to do to the man.

"I am."

"But your not Hank Summers?"

Logan snarls menacingly at the name. "Why don't you get this slab of rock off me and we can have ourselves a real conversation."

Spike smirks at the request. "You expect me to trust you, the man who tried to skewer me?"

"I won't do it again. Scouts honor," Logan pledges.

Spike laughs at the comment as he asks, "you were a boy scout?"

"Might've been," Logan answers. "But I kind of doubt it," he admits after a slow heartbeat.

The comment earns a questioning look from Spike as he stares down at the man. He wasn't sensing the same hostility from him as he did before. Sure the man was still a bubbling cauldron of intense emotions, but must of it was unfocused at the moment. He seems sincere enough and he actually does like the feisty little man despite the gnawing feeling in his gut that just wants to rip him apart. A common feeling around most humans.

Besides he took the man once, he could do it again.

Plus there's the interesting story of how he could be the Slayer's father.


	5. Chap 5: Human Wheels

**Chapter Five: Human Wheels**

Logan leans back slightly as he sits on the window sill of the suites' large bay window, pressing his back against the glass' cool surface. A dark purple towel in one hand as he wipes the perspiration off his face and chest. Like most mornings he had gone for his run.

Since unofficially joining Xavier's X-Men he's been exercising regularly. He never really saw a need to before, his healing factor had always been more then enough to keep him healthy and in peak physical condition.

At least he had thought it was.

In the weeks since starting the training regiment he's felt his strength, endurance, all his physical attributes increase each and every day. Not a lot, but enough to be noticeable, even measurable.

With his left hand he holds the rooms portable phone to his ear. A thin stream of blue smoke rises from the cigar in the ashtray. He takes a quick glance through the open blinds, at the bright blue, cloudless sky beyond.

Tossing the towel to the back of the couch he picks up his cigar. "That's why you couldn't find any trace of a successful human clone," he says into the handset.

"Magic?" Xavier questions from the other side of the continent. It didn't take Logan's extremely sensitive ears to pick up on the skepticism in the man's voice. "Are you sure?"

He looks out the window again when he hears a soft pop. Kurt seems to float there for a brief second. Just as he begins to plummet, he vanishes in a cloud of smoke, and reappears a fraction of a second later in the middle of the room, a couple of plastic bags full of groceries in each hand. He makes a subtle gesture with his head indicating he was going to go put the goods away.

Logan nods his response as he says into the phone, "about as sure as I can be concerning anything," while he brings his cigar to his mouth. He inhales sharply, savoring the flavor. "Considering the source," he adds after a short pause.

"This vampire Spike?"

"Until a few days ago I'd have a problem accepting that they're real myself," he answers.

"What about everything else? Slayers? Keys? Demons? Gods?"

_**A thick, gritty layer of heavy, gray smoke hangs low in the dark, hazy, cramped and extremely crowded confines of Golden's Bar and Grill. A more disreputable pub in Sunnydale couldn't be found. Unless it was Willy's, The Human Host, or The Drowning Man. The smell of stale beer, spilt blood, and urine hung in the air.**_

_**It was the perfect place for the two men sharing one of the small, square tables pressed up against the back wall. A platter of salted peanuts rest in the middle of it. Pitcher size mugs of strong ale, along with several shots of whiskey, sit in front of each man.**_

**_Spike leans back in his rickety wooden chair, smoke rising from the cigarette in his hand. His icy blue eyes mesmerizing every detail of the feral man sitting across from him. "So you're really the Slayer's pappy?" He asks as Logan takes a deep draw from his cigar._**

**_A thick cloud of fresh smoke plumes around Logan's head as he exhales. His dark eyes narrow on the vampire. Its taking all of his self control to keep himself restrained. Every fiber of his being just wants to launch himself at the undead creature sitting across from him. To rip his throat out with his teeth if necessary. To carve him into a thousand tiny pieces. "Why is it you keep calling her that?" Is what he asks instead. "Slayer?"_**

"**_Cause its what she is," Spike answers already sounding tired of having to explain things. He picks up one of the shot glasses in front of him and tosses the contents down his throat. "The one girl in all the world. Chosen to fight the forces of darkness. Vampires, demons. All of us nasty evil things that slither around in the dark."_**

"**_Yet you're still here," Logan points out._**

**_Spike smirks at the tone. "What can I say? Me and the Slayer have done a bit of work together. Helped her avert an apocalypse or two."_**

"**_Plus there's that little problem of yours," he says picking up his pitcher of beer. Spike's eyes widen for a fraction of second before his entire face hardens in a deep scowl. "Somebody do some kind of psychic whitewash on you?"_**

**_His scowl intensifies as he takes a ferocious drag off his cigarette before he crushes the stub between his fingertips and drops it to the floor. "Yeah," Spike growls from deep in his chest as he feels his temper inch upwards, creeping towards the red line. "Some one did a whitewash. Good old uncle Sam. Shoved a sodding chip in my head, made it so every time I take a swing at one of you bloody humans sends a thousand little maniacs pounding a crazed thrashed metal song erupting in my skull."_**

_**Logan scoffs as he drops the empty shot glass back onto the table.**_

"**_What? You think its funny? Finding out somebody experimented on you, changing you? Trying to control..."_**

**_Steel glides against steel as Logan's adamatium claws pop out from between the knuckles of his left hand. The dim light gleaming dully off the shinning metal. "Yeah, I got some idea what its like to lose my entire life. Or did you think these were all natural?"_**

"**_Bugger," Spike breathes out in a soft whisper as he picks up his pitcher of beer. Taking a long swig he continues to stare at Logan even as the claws slide back up his forearm, the flesh and muscle shifting with the movement._**

_**Logan picks up another shot glass full of whiskey with the same hand and knocks it back. As he drops the glass back to the table his right hand moves his cigar to his mouth. He takes a long pull from it.**_

"**_Must've been a bitch."_**

"**_Wouldn't know," Logan mumbles slamming back his last shot._**

"**_What the hell are you?" Spike questions, curiosity lighting his blue eyes. His chip only went off on humans. Judging with how quickly the gashes between his knuckles healed, in only seconds, he couldn't be human. Maybe one of those immortals, like that McCleod bloke or the chit Amanda. Or maybe his chip went off on human demon hybrids._**

**_Logan picks up his beer. "Ever hear of mutants?"_**

"**_Something about humans with powers," he answers with a shrug as Logan downs half his beer. "Figured it was a bunch of nits that didn't want to admit they're part demon," Spike finishes while Logan drains the pitcher. He drops it to the table. Spike can see a slight glaze in Logan's eyes for a few seconds before they clear up, regaining their bitter edge. "Blimey," he mutters._**

"**_So you help Buffy out from time to time. Explains why she hasn't killed you. Plus she's probably got a soft spot for the disabled," Logan starts off. "Doesn't explain why you were taking Dawn around gathering components for a spell that would raise Joyce?"_**

"**_Like I need to explain a bloody thing to you," Spike scoffs as he pulls a cigarette out of his pack. Keeping his eyes locked on Logan he adds, "not like you've really been much of a parental influence in their lives," in his most insulting voice._**

"**_That's about to change," Logan growls as another rounds of drinks are placed on the table and the empty glasses are cleared off for the third time tonight. He pulls a pair of twenties out of his pocket and tosses them on the tray._**

**_Spike takes a drag off his freshly lit cigarette. He leans forward as the waitress saunters off. "Easy to talk a good game. Hell of a lot harder to do when a mad god wants to eat your brains for supper," he breathes out in a low hiss._**

**_Logan shifts, edging forward. "What the hell are you talking about?"_**

"**_Some father you..."_**

"**_This has something to do with Dawn being a clone of Buffy," Logan states in a pale whisper. His eyes seem to flash a dark amber for a brief second as the light catches them just right._**

"**_Clone?" Spike whispers in surprise._**

"**_What do you know about it?" He questions in a low, savage growl._**

"**_How do you know she's a clone?" Spike demands refusing to let the heckles rising on the back of his neck to influence him. There was definitely something about Logan that the demon inside of him recognizes. Something that keeps coming to the surface. Something the demon fears._**

"**_Their scents are identical. Closer then twins, but different," Logan snarls._**

_**Spike blinks at his answer. Vampire senses were good, though they varied between individuals. His weren't anywhere near as good as Angel's, who could track people by scent while he needed a blood trail to follow, but even his grandsire couldn't tell if two people were related by scent alone.**_

"**_That's how they bloody did it," Spike blurts out in a soft whisper. "Blighters took a piece of Buffy and used it to make Dawn. That bloody thing never did make sense to me."_**

"**_What are you talking about?"_**

**_Spike glances around the bar making sure nobody is close enough to over hear. Then in a voice so soft only another vampire sitting less then a foot away would be able to hear him, he says, "the monks that made Dawn. Somehow they got a little piece of Buffy, blood sample or what all, and created Dawn."_**

"**_Why?" Logan asks in a voice just as soft. "Why would they do that?"_**

_**Again Spike looks around though he knows nobody has come any closer to them. Its too late already. If the man's a ruse working for Glory then he had already said too much. The problem is, he thought the man is exactly who he claims to be, Buffy and Dawn's long lost father come to reclaim his children.**_

"**_They were protecting something," he begins in that same soft whisper. "Something powerful, maybe even capable of destroying the world if it fell in to the wrong hands."_**

"**_And somebody's after it?"_**

**_Spike shakes his head. "Is. And not just anybody. A god, kicked out of her own dimension by her fellow gods because she didn't play well with others, and banished here to Earth. It wants to use this key to get back home. The monks, being the bright boys that they are, knew they couldn't protect the key so they sent it to someone that could."_**

"**_Buffy."_**

**_Spike nods his blonde head. "And just to make sure the Slayer would do what they wanted they sent this key to her as something they knew she would protect. A sister..."_**

"**_Dawn," Logan finishes as everything clicks in._**

"**_Dawn," Spike agrees lifting his beer from the table. "Aren't you glad you asked?" Spike inquires paying close attention to Logan. "So what're you gonna do?"_**

**_The question snaps Logan out of himself, his dark eyes locking on Spike. "I'm going to do whatever's necessary to keep my girls safe," he answers as he stands. "Stay away from them vampire."_**

**_Spike returns his glare as he rises to his feet. Only considered average height he still towers over the much shorter man. "Hate to burst your bubble shrimp, but you ain't got what it takes to keep me out."_**

**_Logan steps in close, looking up slightly. In a low hiss he growls, "come around them again and find out why I'm called Wolverine."_**

"**_Personal hygiene problem?"_**

**_Logan smiles, a vicious little grin. "Wanna find out right now? While you don't have a two thousand pound slab of granite to drop on me?"_**

He had walked out of the bar shortly after that. Nothing had been decided. Just a few more threats passed back and forth between the two men.

"Most of its probably true," Logan answers. "A disposed god being after her, though. That part I'm kind of finding hard to swallow."

"Perhaps a powerful mutant with delusions of grandeur?" Charles inquires.

Logan shrugs, a subtle shifting of his shoulders. "Maybe? I'll check it out tomorrow. Let you know what I find out," he replies as he reaches the small refrigerator.

"If you need us, we can be there in little more then an hour," Charles informs Logan.

He pulls open the door and grabs himself a can of beer. "Thanks for the offer Chuck, but there ain't no reason to have everyone come rushing out here. Once I find out more, maybe, but not right now," Logan explains.

There's a slight pause from Xavier before he asks, "you're going to talk with the girls tomorrow?"

Logan pops open the beer. "Bright and early in the morning."

"Then I'll let you go," he says.

"Give everyone my best."

"I will. And Logan... I hope everything goes smoothly for you tomorrow."

"Thanks Chuck."

As Logan hangs up the phone Kurt steps into the suites small kitchen, a tiny smile playing across his lips. "Your vampire friend was right about this town," he says.

"Nobody went screaming away, running off towards the hills?" Logan asks turning on the fan over the stove.

Kurt shakes his head. "The most extreme reaction I got was somebody raising an eyebrow, and that was because I didn't want any blood or entrails with my order." He gives his head another wondering shake, then raises his own beer to his mouth and takes a healthy pull.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Dawn sighs slightly as she plops down on a step halfway up the stairs, her left shoulder resting against the wall. When she got home from school, almost an hour ago, Buffy had been vacuuming. From the nearly spotless look of the house, she had already done the dusting and the scrubbing and only had the polishing left to do.

Obviously Buffy had gone into cleaning mode. Something she only does when she is extremely nervous and has nothing else to do. Like slaying. She may not admit it, but Dawn can tell Buffy is more nervous now then she has ever seen her sister.

Dawn could understand it. Its not like she wasn't just as nervous as Buffy. She just didn't see a point in rushing around like a chicken, with her head cut off and doing useless work. Its not like the house was ever going to stay spotless. Sunnydale wasn't that weird.

If it was up to her, she would leave the house just the way it had been. Let Logan see that they were human, that they weren't perfect, right off the bat. Then maybe he'd go back to wherever he came from instead of trying to force his way into their lives.

She already lost two parent this week and wasn't looking forward to some weekend interloper trying to step in and fill that void. So what if he was Buffy's biological father. It wasn't like he had anything to do with her, how she came into existence, or anything.

Just because Mom accepted her without reservations when she found out, just like Buffy, didn't mean he would. And Dawn wasn't expecting a repeat performance by her new found father. At least Buffy and Mom had a lifetime worth of memories of her to fall back on.

Logan didn't even have that.

The ringing telephone cuts through the whirring of the vacuum cleaner. Barely. That is until the vacuum cleaner shuts off.

Dawn hops up off the stairs at the sound. Even with as fast as she moves Buffy is there before her. Before the phone rings a second time the tiny blonde picks up the handset.

"Hello. Summers' residence," Buffy greets. "Speaking. Uh-huh. Yeah. Right. Right. They are. Here, tomorrow. Nine o'clock. Sure that won't be a problem. Thank you," she finishes removing the phone from her ear. A slightly nostalgic expression settling over her face as she sets the handset back in its cradle.

"Who was that?" Dawn asks as Buffy turns to walk away.

She stops and turns back around, her eyes still a fraction wider then normal. "The realtor. There's somebody interested in buying Mom's gallery."

"You can't sell the Gallery!" Dawn exclaims. "Its Mom's..."

"Its the banks," Buffy cuts in roughly. "Without mom to run it, and make the payments, there's no way we can afford to keep the Gallery. Holding on to it will just eat through Mom's savings, the insurance, and in the end the bank will just take it and sell it anyway. Mom didn't want that," she says reaching out with her hand to brush away the tear rolling down Dawn's cheek. "I'm sorry Dawn," she begins in a softer voice, "if we could afford to keep it, I would."

Dawn jerks her head away from Buffy. She lets her hand fall back to her side unsure of what she should do to get through to her sister.

"What about Logan? Why doesn't he take care of it? Make it so we can keep the Gallery instead of having to sell it?" She demands angrily. None of it was fair. Not only had she lost her mom, but now she was losing all the little pieces that went along with her.

"You can't just expect Logan to swoop in and clean up our messes."

"Why not?" She shouts at Buffy. "I thought that's what parents were suppose to do?"

"Dawn," Buffy soothes reaching for her sister again.

Dawn jerks back again as she brushes Buffy's hand away. "I don't know why you're trying so hard. Its not like anything you do is going to make a difference. Once he finds out who we are, what we are, he isn't going to stick around. He's going to be on the first plane out of here so fast it'll make your spin!" She yells, letting her rage out at her sister. Her blue eyes glaze, shooting sparks before she turns and bolts up the stairs.

Buffy lets out a deep sigh as her head rolls backwards. She should have seen this coming, been better prepared to deal with it. Only she wasn't. Just like she wasn't ready to deal with any of Dawn's problems. If this is a prelude as to what she would be like as mother then she is kind of glad she isn't going to live long enough to have children.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

As always Kurt found the night to be a great comfort, like an old blanket or doll. Just like the dark duster and black fedora he wore to obscure his unusual features and blue skin. He tended to find people didn't see what they didn't want to see. So long as it wasn't shoved in their face.

With what Logan learnt from the vampire, and what he himself experienced first hand this morning on his shopping trip, the residents of Sunnydale were even more apt to pull their blinders tight when confronted with the strange, the unusual, or the bizarre. Most know about the town's unique strangeness, but simply ignore or discount the odd happenings. He didn't know whether to be ecstatic that he found someplace he didn't have to hide who he is, or to shout at everyone he meets to open their eyes. That the world is still hurtling towards in uncertain future and ignoring the fact isn't going to make it go away.

Kurt gives his head a small shake at the thought. It was simple human nature to hold on to what is comfortable, safe, known. Trying to get people to accept what they weren't ready for would be about as successful as stopping a tsunami by yelling at it. Still the attempt had to be made.

At the moment though, he's just glad to be up and around. Especially as quickly as he is considering how drained and exhausted he felt the other night, considering the strain of teleporting from one end of town to the other without stopping.

Fifteen hops at just over three miles a jump in less then twenty seconds. Its a wonder he didn't die with the effort. If he had though then Dawn might have succeeded in her attempt to resurrect Joyce. Logan told him how close it had been.

It still disturbs him. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more disturbed he becomes. That somebody, no matter how noble, or necessary their motives, would so callously create a person, a human being, for the sole purpose of forcing somebody to protect her. Then dump in a lifetime worth of altered memories.

It is the ultimate in manipulation and cruelty.

He wishes he felt differently about the subject, but he didn't. In his entire life he has never wished anyone dead, or been glad that they were, but these monks that created Dawn.

As far as he's concerned they received the fate they deserved.

He would pray for their souls, but he wouldn't mourn their passing.

Not to take any chances at night Kurt decided to take his walk through the towns outskirts. Just because people didn't run and scream in broad daylight didn't mean they would have the same reaction seeing him in the dead of night. "Good evening," he says, a slight tip of his hat, to the young couple he passes.

"How you doing," the male, a thick body brunette, that hovers just over six feet, returns as they walk by. The young woman at his side smiles warmly. Just because he wants to avoid attracting undo attention when he could, didn't give him license to be rude.

"I thought Buffy wasn't doing a sweep tonight?" Kurt slows hearing the man's words. He didn't know a lot about Sunnydale, but he doubts if there are two girls in town with the name Buffy.

The woman shrugs as she says, "maybe she got bored of sitting around the house. You know slayers aren't really built for inactivity. They always have to be out there pounding on something big and evil."

"But what about Dawn? Buffy wouldn't just leave her home alone, she'd call someone to watch her."

A soft moan from the other side of the bushes catches his upswept ears. Taking a quick peek at the couple he just passed, to make sure they weren't paying any attention to him, he notices they've got their heads pressed into the shrubbery. Looking up at the trees over head he vanishes from the ground, a poof of sulphurous smelling smoke and a tiny pop of displaced air rushing to fill the void, and appears in the tree overhead to the same fanfare.

He scans the area below. There were Buffy and Spike, on the ground. Spike was on the ground, Buffy was straddling his waist, a look of extreme joy lighting her face as her hips rock up and down.

Kurt gives a shuddering sigh as he looks up to the sky and softly pleads, "why does this always happen to me?" Logan was going to want to know about this and he wasn't going to be happy hearing it. He wishes that there was some way he could get out of telling him, but he knew Logan well enough to know the man would sniff it out eventually, maybe even literally. Plus he knew himself well enough to know he was a lousy liar and horrible at keeping secrets. With a slight shake of his head he vanishes leaving nothing but a cloud of gray smoke to mark his passage.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Logan shoves the drawer shut. It wasn't going to do him any good to continue looking. It isn't like there's anything in there other then white tee shirts. He didn't know why he was planning on setting out his clothes for tomorrow in the first place. He didn't have a lot of variation in his wardrobe; jeans, tee shirts, flannels, and a pair of work boots; to begin with.

He isn't use to being nervous about anything. Normally he just took life as it came. Live each day moment by moment, only having to look out for himself, never having to worry about anybody else.

Slowly, inexorably that had been changing though. First Marie, or Rogue as she prefers to be called, then Xavier's X-Men. His fight, or his dream. Other students like Kitty, Bobby, and Jon.

All of which was having a profound effect on him. Giving him ties to a world where he was isolated. Alone.

Now his ties were about to be cemented. Truth be told he's scared as all hell of that happening.

Of being connected to people. Of not being able to pick up and leave at a moments notice. Of actually caring about someone other then himself.

Tomorrow would also bring him something else.

People he had never known, never met before, would be counting on him. Looking to him for answers, possibly guidance.

He gives his head a slight shake as he steps out of his room. Thinking the problem to death isn't going to solve anything.

What he wants is to be out. Doing something. Anything that would take this edge of anticipation off.

A soft popping from outside causes Logan's head to jerk in the direction of the large bay window. Kurt was gazing into the room, somehow clinging upside down to the building exterior surface. An instant later he vanishes from outside the window to the middle of the room with his standard pop and sulfurous smelling cloud of smoke.

"Thought you'd be out longer," he says for a greeting.

Kurt straightens, taking his fedora off while he stands. He gives a slight nervous shrug without saying anything, but looking like there's something he wants to, or perhaps, needs to say. He takes a deep breath before cautiously inquiring, "just what kind of relationship did Spike say he has with Buffy?"

"What's going on elf?" Logan questions in a low, menacing growl.

Kurt swallows at the tone in Logan's voice. "Just remember that we don't know what's going on."

"I don't know anything at all," Logan replies.

"It could just be a simple misunderstanding," he says taking a small step back matching Logan's step forward. "Or a complex plan and we're simply not privy to all the finer details."

Logan takes another step forward. "There's going to be a misunderstanding here," he says taking another step. The soft rasping sound of steel slowly gliding against steel fills the room as Logan's claws slide out.

Kurt teleports, vanishing from in front of Logan to reappear on the wall behind him. He swings around so his back is pressed into the corner so he can keep a close eye on his temperamental friend. "Just remember, I'm only the messenger here," he says as Logan whips around. His hard eye glare locking on to him instantly. "I saw the two of them tonight. Together," he adds with meaning.

Logan shrugs, his claws retracting. "So," he replies not catching the meaning behind what Kurt said. "She's this slayer, he's a vampire. He as much as told me that they work together, killing demons. Saving the world. Much as I may not like the fact, there isn't a hell of a lot I can do about it."

"They weren't together killing demons," Kurt responds with a shake of his head. "They were together. As in the biblical sense..."

"Arghh," Logan growls. "That son of a bitch," he adds looking around the room. Spotting his coat he stalks across the room. "Told him I'd kill him, one way or another," he mutters sliding his denim jacket on. "Bastard didn't believe me," he finishes striding to the door.

He was taking the news better then Kurt had thought he would. The room was still in one piece. More importantly he was still in one piece. Now all he had to do was keep Logan from doing something he might regret later. Like killing his daughter's lover.

Not that he approved of the relationship, a vampire will always be a vampire after all. While Logan had the right to know about it, not like Buffy or Spike would be able to hide it from him. With olfactory senses that surpass any other known animal, it wouldn't have taken him long to find out.

Teleporting he reaches the door a fraction of a second after Logan. "Don't get in my way elf," he growls pulling the door open.

"I'm just along for the ride my friend," he replies though he adds to himself, and to make sure you don't do something you'll regret.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike takes a deep drag off his cigarette as he leans back against the stone pillar. As much fun as he was having with his new toy it wasn't quite what he had hoped for. Just as long as he didn't think to much about though he could convince himself it was really Buffy there with him.

That she really did love him. That she had seen the changes in him.

For a little while anyway.

Though he had to wonder just how much he has changed if he could still think up having somebody build him his own little sex machine. Was it evil, or was it just selfishness at being denied what he wanted, when he wanted it. Or was it something else entirely.

A soft rustling noise draws his attention to the door of his crypt. Buffy rises to her feet from where she had been kneeling in front of Spike. "Who's that?" She asks with curiosity.

Spike pulls his pants all the way back up and begins fastening the snap. The last thing he needed was a run in with any of Buffy friends, or worse yet the slayer's new pappy, or the slayer herself. "Uh... Down there," he says gesturing towards the trapdoor leading down to the cavern. "And no matter what, don't come out till I get you. Okay?"

Buffy nods. She didn't understand Spike's instructions. It almost seems like he was ashamed of her, but that couldn't be, because Spike loves her and she loves him and soon everybody was going to know about it. Spike had said so.

Spike watches her for moment as she disappears. Then he looks to the door just as it opens and Xander walks in. Not for the first time he wishes he had snap the blokes neck when Angel had first offered it to him all those years ago. It would have saved him so many problems over the years. "Its you," he scoffs.

Xander closes the door behind him without taking his eyes off Spike. "I saw you... In the cemetery with Buffy," he informs Spike taking a few steps closer to the vampire. He couldn't believe just how big of a joke Spike had become. A few years ago the thought of confronting the master vampire even with Buffy at his side would have had him babbling incoherently. Now thanks to one government supplied chip he was the one with all the control.

"Yeah? Can't see how its any business of yours," Spike replies angrily.

Xander takes another step closer to Spike, not bothering to conceal how angry he is. "It is my business because Buffy's my friend... And she's gone through some stuff lately that... Well, it's affected her, and you're taking advantage of her."

He lets out a little breath just before saying, "she's upset about her mum." He takes a drag off his cigarette. All he wants is for this bloody wanker to get the hell out of his crypt, out of his life for that matter, but tossing him out bodily would just get the slayer riled up. Still he couldn't help tweaking the little dweebs nose just a bit. "And if she turns to me for comfort, well. I'm not gonna deny it to her. I'm not a monster."

"Yes. You are a monster. Vampires are monsters. They make monster movies about them," he replies with scorn.

Spike smirks at Xander. "Well, yeah. You got me there."

Xander reaches out grabbing Spike by the front of his shirt as the bleached blonde vampire stretches the last strings of his temper. "Spike, Buffy has lots of friends, and we love her very much, and we'll do whatever it takes to protect her. Now if that means killing you, then... Well, that's just a bonus," he finishes with a vicious little smile playing at the corners of his lips.

All Spike wants to do is reach out and snap Harris' neck. Maybe crush his throat and watch him slowly suffocate to death, only that way he wouldn't get to see him die. Or maybe he would. Sure the pain would be intense for a minute, or thirty. After yesterday he knew he would survive, but then he'd have to deal with the slayer, and he didn't think she'd be to forgiving with him after killing one of her friends. Then again, maybe she would.

Just then the door creaks open and Jinx enters through the open doorway. "Gentlemen!" He greets as more of his fellow demons follow him inside. "I'm so sorry to intrude, but I wondered if I might beg a moment of your time."

Spike glances back at Xander as the brunette lets him go. "Friends of yours?"

Jinx punches Xander in the stomach dropping him to the floor. Spike feels a little satisfaction, not as much as he would have by snapping Xander's throat, but still it was a little. "Guess not," he mumbles lashing out at the Jinx.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Giles takes a long look at the three young women gathered around the round table. Xander had been gone nearly a half hour now. For some reason the boy felt it was his responsibility to confront Spike. He still didn't understand exactly what that was going to accomplish aside from making Xander feel like he was important by being able to bully the handicapped vampire.

If Buffy was sleeping with Spike, of her own violation, and not because of some love spell, then it really wasn't any of their business. While he may not like it she is a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions.

The best that he can hope for is that this is the effects of some love spell cast by Spike, one that they'll be able to reverse. Then stake the bloodless bastard for his troubles.

Willow shrugs at Giles troublesome expression. She could understand the need to find out if Buffy is under the influence of a love spell or not, and if she is then steps had to be taken to break it, but if she wasn't then she didn't see where it was any business of anyone else who Buffy slept with. That however would mean going against Xander and that was something she wasn't prepared to do no matter what. They've been friends their entire lives. Still Buffy should be allowed to find what happiness she can, where she can, and with who she wants.

True, Buffy had done the whole dating a vampire thing before, but Spike wasn't Angel or Angelus. He didn't exude that whole creepiness factor like his grandsire. When Spike went after somebody he went after them. There were no mind games from Spike. It was more like a bull being let loose in a china shop.

The other difference that Willow could note between the two vampires was that Angel started off with a soul, fallen in love with Buffy, and then lost his soul. The demon, unleashed, unhampered by a conscious, knowing what it felt like to love, to be loved. Totally alien emotions that it didn't know how to deal with, so it did the only thing it could. Lashed out at the person, and those close to her, that had caused it to suffer.

Spike was the complete opposite. He was the vampire that acts more human then most humans. The one that seems to crave interaction with people.

He started off hating Buffy. Loathing her in fact.

Then she had to go and do that stupid my will be done spell. This could still be the residue of that. Spike's declaration of love for Buffy. Buffy sleeping with Spike. All of it might be laid back at her feet.

"What about this one?" Anya inquires leaning over the table, placing the thick book she has been skimming, on top of the book Tara is currently reading, causing the buxom blonde to give a slight start at the sudden interruption, while Anya's polished nail points out the incantation.

Tara blinks several times, her eyes shifting from the book, to Anya's expectant face, then back to the book. Her eyes skim over the spell in question. "Uhm, yeah. It would definitely reveal if they're being affected by a spell," she informs the ex-vengeance demon. Anya's eyes light up, everyone else leans closer. Tara gulps slightly hating that she was suddenly the center of attention. "It does so by turning the person under the effects of a spell purple, and if they're not it will turn them orange."

Anya smiles as she leans back. "Good, then we won't have a problem telling if the spell worked or not."

Willow shakes her head as she says, "Anya. We can't turn Buffy different colors."

"Why not?" Anya gripes with a scowl. "Its simple, you get a definitive answer and Xander can get back to giving me many orgasms." Which from her perspective was the most important fact as far as she is concerned.

If Spike was capable of giving Buffy many wonderful orgasms then he should be congratulated. Unfortunately she knew that would never be Xander's opinion and if her opinion didn't match his then it might be a long time before he would be in the mood to give her more orgasms. So she made sure her opinions matches his, even though it didn't.

"Does anyone know where Dawn is?" Giles asks suddenly. It was something he should have thought of earlier, when Xander and Anya first came in with their rather disturbing news.

Willow shakes her head as she looks up at Giles. "Buffy said her and Dawn were going to stay home tonight. That she wanted to get the house cleaned before Logan showed up. Why?"

Giles lets out a slight breath. "Even if there is some profound spell effecting Buffy, making her act completely unlike herself. Doesn't it strike you as a bit odd that she'd leave Dawn alone with Glory lurking about. Don't you think she would have called somebody to babysit for her, or at the very least foist her off on one of us?"

"She was acting really strange," Anya replies.

"She wouldn't have just left Dawn alone though," Willow comments almost on top of Anya's statement. "Giles is right. She would've called, got one of us to sit for her."

"Unless the spell is way more powerful then we thought," Tara murmurs.

Giles picks up the phone and quickly punches in Buffy's number. "Hello, Buffy. How are you doing tonight?" He inquires politely. "That's good," he replies to her answer. "You haven't by chance seen Spike tonight have you? Not since April tossed him through a window. Quite. I understand and I agree fully with you." There's a long pause as Giles listens to Buffy. "Yes well, its just Anya and Xander claim to have seen you and Spike earlier this evening engaging in some physical activity. Um, no it didn't involve you staking him. I'd really... Yes, of course. I... They said the two of you were having sex. Yes, with each other. Buffy. Buffy." He looks back up at everyone and says, "I think she fainted."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

On the trek from the hotel, to where he had seen Spike and Buffy, and then to the vampire's lair, Kurt learnt one very important fact about Logan. Ignorance is bliss. If he had just been able to keep his mouth shut, let Logan find out on his own, then he wouldn't be standing outside a heavy steel door, to a very old looking crypt, in the middle of the night, with a psychotic father bent on murder.

Can it actually be called murder if the person in question is already dead? Kurt can't help but wonder. His only interest is trying to keep the two of them from going straight for the throat, get some kind of dialogue going. He thought there is about as much chance of him accomplishing that as he had of wiping prejudice of the face of the planet.

"There's been a lot of traffic through here, more then half a dozen different people," he informs Kurt. His nose twitches as he filters through the little nuances in the air.

One of the scents is Spike. There was a human, male, sort of familiar. First picked up at the Summers' house when he was there. His scent is still strong in the area which meant he's probably still inside. Unlike the vampire and four distinct inhuman scents. All hours old.

"Are you still picking up that..."

"Mechanical scent?" Logan finishes for him. "Yeah," he answers.

"Still no sign of Buffy?" Kurt asks. Logan gives his head a small shake. Kurt couldn't understand it. He knew he had seen Buffy with Spike, but Logan hasn't been able to pick up her scent at all tonight. Just this strange combination of oils, lubricants, rubber, and steel.

Reaching the door Logan shoves it open, cringing slightly at the screeching hinges. With barely a moments hesitation Logan slips inside. Kurt exhales, then follows Logan in.

The interior of the crypt is dark, the pale moonlight doing little to illuminate inside the stone building. As he steps inside Kurt instinctively slides into the darker shadows becoming nearly invisible.

Logan moves across the floor making a beeline through the dark. His pupils dilating, the black eclipsing the brown of his irises allowing him to absorb all the available light, turning near total darkness into something resembling twilight.

Kneeling down Logan gives Xander the once over, making sure the young man isn't seriously injured. Once that's done he gives him a short, hard, sharp slap against the side of his face. Xander's eyes snap open at the sudden shock. He mumbles something unintelligible.

"Time to wake up boy," Logan growls cocking his open hand back again.

"I'm awake," Xander burst out. The slap hadn't hurt, much, but it still stung and if he could avoid another by speaking up, he'd definitely speak up.

Logan grins wolfishly at him as he says, "glad to hear it. Now how's about you tell me what you're doing taking a nap in a vampires crypt. Not really a recipe for a long life."

Xander gives his head a short jerk to clear out the cobwebs. "The chipped wonder," he snorts derisively. "He'd get his ass kicked by a gang of girl scouts if he..."

Logan grabs Xander by his shirt and surges to his feet bringing him along for the ride. A brief moment later Xander feels his back slammed into the rough stone wall, his feet dangling a few inches off the floor as Logan easily holds him aloft. Xander begins to protest, but as he looks down at Logan's face, words freeze in his throat at the sight of black eyes easily twice the size of a normal humans.

The feral mutant easily picks up the rapid rise in the boys heartbeat, respiration, perspiration. Clear indications he is terrified. Deciding to use that to his advantage Logan leers evilly. "I don't have time to coddle you boy. So if you don't wanna find yourself suddenly having a really bad night you might want to think about answering the questions quick as possible," he suggest in a deep menacing whisper.

Xander swallows hard. Its easy to act tough when you know the person wasn't, couldn't retaliate. Its something all together different when the person, demon, has nothing restraining them, him. He gives his head a short nod, not trusting his voice enough to speak.

"Good," Logan responds his wolfish grin slipping back on. "Where's Spike?"

"Glory's minions," Xander rasps. "They burst in here, knocked me out. I don't..." He stops speaking as Logan's head whips around.

"Heads up elf. There's something moving below us."

"Any idea what?" Kurt asks, his voice seeming to drift out of the darkness.

Xander squints, looking at the spot the voice came from. He can make out a vague outline, roughly human shape.

Logan scents the air. "Its that other thing I keep picking up," he answers letting go of Xander, who drops to the floor with a heavy thud. "Stay put. You won't like what happens if I have to hunt you down," he growls.

"Where is it at?" Kurt asks.

"Back this way," Logan answers as he slips into the shadows becoming almost as unseeable as Kurt. Xander stares in wonder as the human shape patch of darkness moves, darting towards the back of the crypt.

As the two men move a soft scraping sound fills the chamber as the heavy stone lid is pushed aside. Logan stares his eyes going wide as Buffy's head pops into view. It wasn't Buffy though. Its that piece of mechanized machinery he's been smelling all night.

"Spike," she calls out loudly hoping the sinisterly delectable vampire is close by.

"Buffy!" Xander shouts.

At the same time Logan growls, "I'm going to kill him." Not only did he have an android of his daughter built, but he was having sex with it.

"I told you I saw what I saw," Kurt exclaims sounding vindicated.

"Xander," Buffy calls out happily. Then frowns as she adds, "plus two people I do not know." With that she quickly exits the stairwell leading to Spike's sleeping chamber. One of the stranger is human, the other quite definitely is a demon. But were they good or evil.

"They're not people Buffy, they're demons!" Xander shouts hoping Buffy won't have too much difficulty in killing them both.

Logan whirls on Xander. "That's not Buffy! Its a flaming android!"

Xander blinks, his eyes shifting from Logan to Buffy. It looks like Buffy. The same perky smile, the bright eyes, the exuberance that she exudes.

"Why thank you," Buffy says to Logan. Her smile widening, her face shinning a little bit brighter then a moment before. "You are the first person, aside from Spike and Warren, to realize I am not a biological creature." She turns her head to look at Xander, "are you sure they're demons. I like this one," she adds pointing at Logan. "It would be a shame to have to kill them."

"We aren't demons fraulein," Kurt responds with a small bound to the top of the Sarcophagus. The dim light exposing his blue skin, yellow tinted eyes. He tips his fedora as he gives Buffy a small bow, revealing his three finger hand, pointed upswept ears, hair a shade or two darker then his skin. His spear pointed tail swinging from side to side behind him. "We're mutants."

Buffy cocks her head to the side, a curios look in her eyes. "I am unfamiliar with that term. Please explain," she inquires.

Logan growls low in his chest. "Once I get my hands on that vampire there isn't going to be enough left of him to fill a zip lock."

Kurt turns his attention towards his hot-headed friend. "Are you sure that's a wise course of action? If this Glory person has him, then doesn't it stand to reason that she may be trying to extract what he knows about Dawn."

"He had an android made of my daughter so he could have sex with it," Logan responds in a savage snarl.

Buffy smiles at the statement. "You must be Hank Summers. I am sorry I do not have a visual reference of you."

"Aargh!" Logan growls. "And I should scrape that thing. Turn it back into a toaster oven, or whatever it came from."

Xander stares at Logan. This is Buffy's father. He's a mutant. Did that make Buffy a mutant? He had always thought Buffy was special, chosen to protect the world. But now... Now he didn't know.

"Logan," Kurt begins attempting to divert his ire. "The first thing we have to do is retrieve the vampire. Find out what he told Glory."

Buffy watches her human counterparts father with confusion, her processors trying to make sense out of what was being said by everyone around her. The blue mutant, whatever that is, called Buffy's father, her father Logan. Is that some kind of nick name Warren hadn't been familiar with when he programmed her.

Logan's head shifts towards Xander, the force of his dark eye glare pinning him to where he stands. "Take the walking tin can and put it someplace out of the way."

"Will you be able to track them?" Kurt asks moving towards the door.

"Its not like they're trying to hide themselves," Logan replies. "Their scents lead the way clear as any road sign." Reaching the door he shoves it all the way open with perhaps a bit too much force.

Kurt shrugs apologetically at Xander. "He takes some getting use to," he comments. Hoping off the stone lid he quickly follows Logan out the door.

Xander's gaze follows the two men out of the crypt. He wasn't even close to being sure as to what had just taken place. Buffy's father, a Buffybot, Spike being captured by Glory's minions.

Buffy takes a couple of steps towards Xander closing the distance between them. "Did I do something wrong?" She inquires a slight frown creasing her lips. His gaze shifts to her as she adds, "everyone seemed extremely upset, and Buffy's father's comments towards me sounded very derogatory."

He gives his head a small shake as he says, "he didn't mean anything by it. I guess he's just a little freaked about finding out about you like this," he finishes his words sounding numb to his own ears. They echo his own feelings about Buffy. Something else comes through as well.

It didn't matter to him what Buffy is. Slayer. Mutant. Some kind of weird amalgamation of the two. It didn't matter. Buffy has been his friend since she first moved to Sunnydale. Hopefully she would remain his friend till they were all long dead.

"Come on. We gotta let Buffy know what's going on and get to Spike before he spills the beans about Dawn," he informs Buffy's android double.

"Spike would not do anything to endanger Dawn," she replies with a bright smile. "Spike loves Buffy and if anything were to happen to Dawn it would hurt Buffy and Spike would rather die then hurt Buffy. Or Dawn."

Xander scowls darkly at the decree. Obviously she had been programmed to think Spike is some great guy. It'll take somebody like Willow to program that out of her. That was if Buffy didn't tear her apart on principle.

"Oh, shit!" He exclaims suddenly. "We have to hurry," he says pulling the android along behind him. He couldn't believe he had just let Buffy's father rush off to face Glory. "If anything happens to Logan, Buffy is going to kill... Hey! What are you doing?" He shouts as the android picks him up.

"You said we must hurry. I can run much faster then you and since your life depends on how quickly we can reach Buffy it only makes sense that I carry you," she answers succinctly. Before Xander can protest Buffy takes off at a flat out run causing him to screech.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy leans back against the hardwood door frame, banging her lightly while pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "You thought I was what?" She questions her friends, a nasal like whine permeating her voice.

Silence fills the Summers' living room as Willow, Tara, Giles, and Anya shoot glance back and forth at each other. Giles takes a deep breath. "Sleeping with Spike," he answers softly.

She shudders at the imagery. Opening her eyes she takes a half step forward, her scowl seeming to engulf everyone in the room. "What would give you guys an idea like that?"

"You appear tense," Anya notes clinically. "Perhaps Spike isn't doing a good job of helping you relieve the tension. If you want I can talk with him, let him know you're not satisfied with his performance?"

"Let's get this straight," Buffy growls in a low voice. "I have never, nor will I ever, sleep with Spike."

"Buffy. People saw you," Willow pleads.

"And Dawn can tell you I've been here, in the house since she got home from school," she responds trying to keep a tight hold on her patience.

Giles shakes his head stiffly as he says, "and Dawn wouldn't lie for you."

Buffy turns her head, a slight shifting to glare at Giles. Before she can say anything though the front door burst open. "Buffy!" Xander shouts from the open door. "We've got problems," he adds coming into view.

"Now Xander can tell you that you were having sex with Spike in the cemetery," Anya tells Buffy as she takes a single step forward, then stops as Buffy steps around Xander.

"It wasn't Buffy," Xander informs her.

Buffy begins to turn saying, "see I told you..." She stops, her mouth going slack.

Buffy steps forward looking Buffy over. A brilliant smile lights up her face. "We are very pretty," she informs her human counterpart.

Her eyes blaze as she glares at the android. "What the hell's going on here?" Buffy demands.

Xander takes a deep breath as all eyes fall on him. "Spike had Warren build him an android of you, a sexbot. That's what me and Anya saw."

"I'm gonna kill them," Buffy snarls. "Both of them. No," she adds her eyes lighting up. "I'm going to do worse then kill..."

"It gets worse," Xander cuts into Buffy's musings. "Glory's minions took Spike. Logan and some blue guy with a tail went after him."

"Logan," Buffy whispers.

"Yeah, and a more pleasant person I've never meant before," Xander remarks rubbing his cheek. "With the way they were talking it sounded like they were planning on silencing Spike permanently before he can tell Glory anything about Dawn."

Buffy nods numbly. "Good," she says softly not really hearing everything Xander just said. "We should've done it ourselves after he found out."

"Buffy," Willow says deep concern coloring her voice. She moves forward asking, "are you all right?"

Her light hazel eyes snap into focus, her head swivels up to face Xander, "how could you let him go after Spike alone. He isn't a match for Glory."

"It wasn't like I could stop him," Xander protest. "They're mutants. Who knows what they're capable of doing?"

"What they're capable of doing is getting killed by a psycho hell god," Buffy growls. Willow places a gentle hand on Buffy's arm. "We have to find Glory, now!"

"We will," Willow assures her. "We will."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The golden ball of superheated plasma, called the sun, is just beginning to crest over the eastern horizon. Its brilliant rays just beginning to kiss the sky, burning off the darkness. The apartment complex looms ahead of the two mutants. Still shrouded in the night. With something darker still sheltered within.

"He's inside," Logan says in a low growl. "The top floor," he adds. If he had to chose where the vampire would be, that would be it.

If he had to pick one word to describe what he felt rolling towards them in an almost palpable wave. It would be evil. Pure, unadulterated malevolent evil. A maliciousness so vile it defies description.

Kurt nods his head. It had taken Logan nearly six hours to track Spike, and his captors, to this building. A luxury apartment complex by all appearances. With the amount of back tracking and criss crossing they had done tonight it surprises him to be here at all.

"I'll port ahead. Keep an eye on the situation," Kurt replies. He could feel the knot tightening in his gut just like it always does before combat.

Logan grabs hold of his forearm before he teleports. "Stay on your toes elf. There's something in there, ain't like anything we've faced before." He looks back towards the building. "It might not be a bad idea for you toss a payer up to that god of yours. Make sure he watches over you in there."

Kurt watches Logan for the brief moment he's at his side. Without a detectable sound he slips over the crest of the hill. Even though he's keeping a keen eye on him, his feral friend simply vanishes into the underbrush.

He had wanted to tell Logan he is his god as well, but he knows Logan's feelings on the subject of religion well enough to know better. He can't blame him. With the life he's had, the tragedies he's faced. It would be difficult to imagine anyone that would have much faith in anything other then themselves afterwards.

"I'll ask him to watch over all of us mien friend," Kurt whispers softly. With that he vanishes leaving behind a cloud grayish smoke.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt scurries along the outside wall of the penthouse apartment looking for any little crack in the drawn blinds and curtains. Anything that would give him the slightest view inside the apartment.

Without being able to see into the room he would be risking life and limb teleporting inside. But that is looking more and more like what he is going to have to do. Unless he could come across something in the next few minutes.

At least this little vacation with Logan wasn't boring. Vampires, demons, mystical warriors, and magical clones. All it needs now is a few water rides and it would be the perfect little family resort.

As he comes across the next window he smiles to himself spotting a little break in the curtains. Not much, but more then enough for him to peek through. Which he does and instantly wishes he hadn't, as he gags down the urge to empty his stomach.

Hanging, arms flung out wide, almost making him look like he's being crucified is Spike. He's strapped into some kind of contraption. His body looks like a solid mass of blood and bruises.

The person responsible for his condition is a tiny woman. A little taller then Logan, but shorter then himself. Her blonde hair has the look of someone who shoved their fingers into an electrical out let. The red dress she's wearing is covered in shimmering sequins. Its the kind of thing somebody wears to a ball, not when they're going to be torturing someone.

If there is any relief to be taken from the situation, not that there is, its the fact that Spike is still being tortured. Unless this person is even more sadistic then he's been led to believe, it means Spike hasn't given up Dawn's name yet. He could only thank god for small favors.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike giggles weakly hoping his plan would work, so far it seems to be going great. If he had one talent it was getting people angry. "Yeah... But it was fun. And guess what, bitch," he says twisting his hands trying to loosen them. He could feel the sun rise just like all vampires. Knew it was a bright and beautiful day out today. "I'm not telling you jack. You're never gonna get your sodding key. Cause you might be strong, but in our world, you're an idiot," he sneers.

"I am a god!" Glory shouts beginning to lose her temper.

It wouldn't be that bad of a day to die. "The god of what, bad home perms?" He questions mockingly.

Glory takes a few steps towards him patting her hair as she yells, "shut up! I command you to shut up!"

Spike grins slightly, knowing her had her about as riled up as he'd ever seen anyone before. He also knew its now or never, if he can't get her angry enough in the next few minutes, to act without thinking, then he knew he was going to hang there all day. "Yeah, okay. Sorry, but I just had no idea that gods were such prancing light weights. Mark my words, the Slayer ... is going to kick your skanky, lopsided ass back to whatever place would take a cheap, whorish, fashion victim ex-god like you."

Glory spins around and delivers a spinning back kick to Spike's chest. His hands break free as he goes flying backward, crashing through the apartment's door and into the hallway outside. He does a back-somersault winding up on the floor, leaning against a chair.

"Good plan Spike," he mutters to himself. Now all he had to was carry out the second, the important, part of his plan.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt's eyes widen, his stomach tightens. It was time to act. He had know idea what the vampire said, but it was obviously enough to seriously enrage the woman if her reaction was anything to go by. One kick and she smashed Spike out of his harness, across the room, and through the door.

With a quick prayer he vanishes, a cloud of smoke marking his passage, only to reappear inside, a few feet higher. Grabbing the rich, blood red velvet curtain he disappears again leaving another sulfurous cloud of smoke in his wake. His only concern, distracting the woman. Glory.

Her head whips around at the soft sound. "What was..." She begins when Kurt reappears above her.

Dropping down, Kurt drapes the curtain over her.

"Get him!" Jinx shouts.

Spike stares in disbelieve at the sight of the blue skin, he still wants to say demon, man appears out of thin air dropping a curtain on top of Glory. In the back of his mind he wonders if he's making a living out of pulling his fat out of the fire. Its a brief thought as he realizes this is the perfect distraction to make his break for the outside, for the sun.

The drape rips in half like rotted cloth as Kurt leaps away. "Get the vampire!" Glory shouts at her minions. "I'll take care of this," she looks Kurt over, "misfit."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike drops to his knees in front of the elevator doors. Jamming his finger into the crease he pries them apart. Leaning forward he looks over the edge as the elevator continues to distance itself from him. "Oh god," he murmurs knowing this is going to hurt and lets himself fall forward. He hits the roof with a hard thud.

"Here," Murk calls out looking down the elevator shaft.

Looking up he see a group of Glory's minions looking over the edge. He smirks up at them, daring them to follow him down.

"This way," Jinx adds pointing towards the stairwell door.

After a brief moment they vanish and he groans. Pulling open the roof hatch he drags himself over and drops inside. He hits the floor with another thud.

The group of scabrous demons make a mad rush at the door. Pulling it open they dash through in a jumble, almost fighting with each other in their haste to get down the stairs.

A low savage growl echoing up the stairwell brings them to a dead stop. Its followed by another, closer, but no other sounds.

They begin back down again, cautiously. Peering around the corner, over the railings. Expecting to see some kind of inhuman beast, like what their goddess is dispatching above them.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt teleports out of the way a second before a sofa soars through the space he had just occupied. It slams into the wall, embedding into it, cracking it from ceiling to floor. He reappears behind her, on the wall looking down over backwards at her. "You're going to have to..."

He vanishes again as a glass coffee table whirls at him like a frisbee. He reappears in the opposite corner. "... Do a lot better then that libchien."

"Come down here..." She starts off hurling a love seat at him.

Kurt vanishes and reappears across the room. "Do I look like a verdammt fool?" He demands starting on one wall and finishing on another.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Logan bounds up the stairs, taking three or four with each step. The complex was empty of people. There wasn't a single human scent more recent then two days old in the entire building. Aside from a dozen demons, the vampire, and that thing that radiates pure evil, there is nothing inside the building.

Each step he takes brings him that much closer to half the demons. His blood surges, burns and roils with every single inch he closes on them. Like this is something he's always meant to do.

He hits the landing, just as the step on the one above him. They pause for a brief second as they take in the human below them. An uneasy sigh escapes them as the group releases its collective breath.

Below them Logan braces himself for their charge, which comes half a beat later. Along with shouts of, "kill the infidel for the Glory of Gloricificous," and the like.

They're almost on top of him, weapons poised and ready to strike, when Logan's lips pull back in a sneer. His claws spring forth with the soft rasping of steel gliding along steel. He surges forward at the last possible moment, ducking under one demon's raised arms, slamming his shoulder into the creature's gut and flipping him over. He sails through the air, slamming into the wall before dropping to the floor, his head breaking his fall.

Logan's right hand lashes out, a quick slash slicing one of the scabrous, gray skin demon's arm off just below the elbow. He screams in pain as jets of greenish blood spurt from the severed limb.

The demon on the left steps around, his axe falling in downward chop, the sharp blade cutting into Logan's shoulder, striking his adamatium reinforced skeleton, sparks fly as the axe blade cracks with the force of the blow, driving Logan to his knee.

Crimson blood spurts from the wound as the demon pulls his weapon free. A second later the wound begins healing at a phenomenal rate. The blood stops flowing, the skin knitting itself back together again.

Logan whirls around on the stairs, his left and lashing out behind him. Razor sharp claws rip through flesh like butter. A hard kick smashes into the demon's face sending him crashing down the stairs.

Instinctively he ducks back the way he had just came. A heavy mace smashing through the space he had just been. The back of his fist crashes into the demon's skull sending the off balanced creature headlong over the railing.

Another mace smashes into his side doubling him over. The other demon swings his axe at Logan's head.

His left hand shoots up, his claws slicing through metal as easily as they did flesh, leaving the demon with a short stub of a handle for a weapon, that whizzes past Logan's head. His other hand jabs forward, his claws punching three holes into the demon's chest. A pain filled expression explodes across his face as he latches onto Logan's forearm.

His lips pull back in a mild grimace. With contemptuous ease he hefts the demon up and tosses him over the railing sending him crashing against the far wall and rolling down the stairs.

Jinx drops his axe handle as he falls to his knees. His hands wrapping around his head as he whimpers, pleads, begs for mercy. Logan snarls, his knee smashing into his hands knocking him down the last few stairs. He gives the carnage a quick once over before spinning back around and rushing up the stairs.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"You can't keep this up forever!" Glory shouts hurling a coat rack, like a spare, at Kurt. "You're only human," she begins as he vanishes. She's getting extremely tired of this. His ability to teleport negated her speed for the most part. She couldn't get close enough to him before he could be someplace else.

She grabs an end table as he appears no more then a foot away from his last spot. "Eventually you'll get tired," she snaps hurling the small piece of furniture at him. "Then I'll get my hands on you," she gloats imagining all the ways she can kill him.

Kurt vanishes a moment before the table smashes into where he had been. He reappears less then a foot away again. "Maybe, but I think you'll run out of things to throw at me first," he mocks her enjoying the little workout. She was right, eventually he would get tired, even at this rather leisurely pace.

Glory's eyes widen. "Why you blue skin little flesh bag," she growls, her eyes darting around, looking. "Run out of things to throw at you," she hisses darting for the far wall. Her hands punch through the plaster and sheet rock. "I'll drop a building on your pointy tailed little butt," she snarls with a heave ripping the wall out. She twist and hurls the wall at him with such force that it scrapes up the floor and ceiling.

At this Kurt decides its time for discretion to take place over valor. Especially when there is no valor to be gained in suicide. As the wall screams towards him he teleports to the roof.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The bright sun shines down warming his face. Hopefully, without the fiend chasing after him, Spike would be able to get away. A handful of demons had to be easier to avoid then a deranged, whatever she is.

He lets out a light breath of relief turning his face towards the sun.

The sun. The bright shining sun. The big golden ball that's a death sentence to vampires the world over if they're caught in its deadly rays.

There is no way that Spike could get away from the apartment building in the broad daylight. He must have realized he would have talked eventually. It didn't take Kurt long to figure out the plan Spike must have come up with to insure he didn't say anything about Dawn, was walking out into the sun.

The original plan might have been kill Spike before he could say anything, but his actions have earned him a reprieve as far as he is concerned. Logan might have some problems with his decisions, but Logan would have to learn to live with it. With a slight exclamation Kurt vanishes from the roof in another burst of smoke.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Logan burst through the door. It rebounds off the wall and bounces back, slamming shut, just missing him as he glides into the hallway, his senses focus in like never before.

Kurt had been here. He was gone now. The vampire was gone as well. Down the elevator shaft.

Overwhelming it all though is that heart of evil that drowns everything in its own bile. The closer he has gotten to its center, to its core, the denser the vileness has become, till it suffuses the very air itself.

"Well look at this," Glory hisses menacingly.

Logan crouches, muscles tensing, lips curling back in a silent snarl.

Glory steps forward. "If it isn't another little flesh bag. And just after I squashed the last one," she taunts taking another step forward. She wobbles slightly, her right hand going to her head, her left to the wall as she steadies herself. A cruel smile spreading across her face. "At least you'll be able to help me get something I need."

Logan growls, a deep rumbling snarl as he leaps at her, his powerful legs covering the three and a half meters and a single bound. His claws springing from between his knuckles with a sharp rasp.

"Well aren't those neat," Glory says brightly while easily grabbing Logan by his wrist, extremely happy that she can show off her strength and speed. Not that he's going to remember it in a few minutes. She whirls around slamming Logan's lower back into the corner of the wall.

He slumps, eyes glazing over at the intense pain that rips through his body. For the second time in two days he's grateful for the adamatium bonded to his skeleton, as it saves him from a shattered lower back and hips. Within seconds his healing factor will begin dealing with his pulverized organs. All he had to do is hang on for a few moments.

"Its a shame they can't cut what they can't touch. Not that they'd be able to..."

Logan's knee slams into her crotch as he springs forward. An animalistic grimace peeling back his lips as the dark, savage part of his psyche surges to the fore. He wrenches one hand free with the initial shock of the attack. His second hand soon follows as he hacks and slashes at anything that comes within range.

The ferocity of his attack driving her back. There is no form, no style, no grace in his attempt to cause her even the slightest harm. Its nothing but pure animal fury, fueled by a beserker like rage.

"That!" Glory rages with a massive back hand to the side of Logan's head. The blow sends him hurtling backwards, flying through the air like a runaway rocket. He hits the wall like a small mortar going off, dropping to the ground as a cloud of dust rises into the air. "Is about enough of that!" With a blurring speed she crosses the intervening space separating them. His eyes begin to roll back in his head.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike drags himself to his feet as the elevator descends in its shaft. The damn thing felt like a tomb. A tomb that's moving far, far too slow. He feels like he's already spent an eternity inside the small box.

Its no mare then fifteen feet to the lobby doors. Fifteen feet and he'd have the final laugh on the psychotic bitch. fifteen feet, and unless she could figure out how to make dust talk, she wouldn't be able to get a single word out of him.

For a god she was about as bright as a wet sock. Didn't make her any less dangerous though. If anything the opposite is true. She didn't need to be all that intelligent to start picking Buffy's friends off one by one. He doubts if any of them would be able to hold out for very long.

Rupert, maybe? He held out against Angel. Glory however lacks his grandsire's use of finesse. Its like comparing a car wreck to Hiroshima.

The others though. None of them would be much of a challenge to her. Not that they weren't a bunch of brave blokes and all. He just knew them.

Hopefully they had all gotten out of town. It should have been their first thought once Harris told them he'd been captured by...

The elevator comes to a jerking stop almost knocking Spike off his feet. A little bell chimes and the door slides open.

"While your sacrifice might be greatly appreciated," Kurt begins as he steps forward, "it won't be required today," he adds tossing Spike's arm over his shoulder. "Hope you don't get motion sick?" He murmurs a split second before they disappear in a cloud of sulfurous smoke.

A bare fraction of a moment later, while the cloud of smoke still hangs in the air, the front door burst open. The sudden breeze scattering the grayish cloud.

Buffy is first through the door, her eyes searching. Spike had been here only a second earlier but was gone now, out of her range to sense him. Logan though, they should be almost on top of him, but he's nowhere to be seen.

Xander is right on heels, followed by Giles, Willow, and Buffy's android twin. All of whom quickly spread out. "That was the guy with Logan," Xander exclaims in a breathless rush. "At Spike's crypt."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Normally I like you bipeds conscious, kind of lets me savor your pain and despair as you sink into madness..." She starts off but comes to a stop as she notices his eyes beginning to regain their focus. "Hell with it," she mumbles sinking her fingers into his skull. They slide in just like always.

She hears a scream and doesn't know if its his or hers or both of theirs.

For the first time ever she feels pain course through her body as her fingers slam into something so hard, so dense it prevents her from entering his brain and absorbing the psychic energies necessary to maintain her grasp on the physical laws of this dimension. Without that energy nothing makes sense to her and slowly, sometimes quickly she loses her grasp on this body she's forced to share.

A backlash erupts between the two of them sending them crashing to the floor. Groggily they begin to rise back up.

"Why?" Glory cries out as she comes back to herself. "Why can't you just give me what I want? Why do you all have to be so selfish?" She screams at him. She can feel her grip slipping. She used to much energy on these two flesh bags, its been too long since she's last fed. Its always too long. Its still her body though and while it is she's going to exact her vengeance.

Logan makes it to his knees, wobbling slightly as Glory makes it to her feet. He can feel his strength returning. Slowly, ever so slowly. Too slowly.

"I'll show you," she says to him taking a couple of staggering steps forward. "I'm a god you stupid pile of rotting bones. You wanna defy a god. Fine," she snarls pulling back her fist. "You can die for you sacrilege."

Logan can see the punch coming towards him. It almost looks like its moving in slow motion. He wishes he had a little strength left. Even enough to just fall out of the way.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"We should get out before anyone knows we were here," Giles advises. "We can always track Spike down later."

Buffy looks around, seemingly not hearing a word that had just been said. "He's here," she whispers. "He should be..." She stops, her gaze turning upwards.

"Who's here?" Willow asks.

"Logan," she says an edge of fear in her voice. "He's up there, with her." Not thinking about it she rushes forward.

A crushing boom rips through the building like a physical force that sends everyone crashing to the floor. Only Buffy, both of them, stand against the wave that buckles walls, the very foundation itself.

Plaster, paint, mortar, outlets, wall hangings, light fixtures; explode outward in a shower of shrapnel that forces everyone to cover themselves from the debris. The air is still thick with smoke and dust and bits of plaster as everyone begins to pick themselves back up, groggy and unsure of what just happened, from the ground.

Buffy's eyes instantly swivel to the floor. To the partially covered figure embedded into the tiled, concrete floor. "No!" She screams tossing the crossbow away as she darts forward. Dropping to her knees she starts hurling debris aside.

Giles glances from Buffy to look at the ceiling. At the jagged hole made there. And the one above that and the one above that and on upwards at a slight angle. "Nothing could have survived that," he murmurs in wonder.

"God," Xander breathes out from just behind him, while someone else retches.

"He's alive!" Buffy exclaims joyously.

Giles spins around knowing that was impossible. The first impact alone should have pulverized every single bone in his body and turned his internal organs to pulp. How the man is still in one piece, instead of being a bloody smear, is mystery in itself.

He stops, he could feel his stomach churning as he stares at Logan. The man looks like a bloody pincushion. Literally.

There is blood. Nowhere near what there should be. Jagged pieces of splintered wood, copper tubing, metal piping; all broken off at sharp edge points, that jut through the man's body. Nothing straight through any bone, just flesh.

Then he saw it. His chest rise and fall despite a thin piece of steel piercing his heart. Then again. Not fast. Not even as fast as deep sleep, but steady and even. "We have to go," he reminds everyone as he comes back to himself.

Buffy looks up, eyes wide with worry as she blurts out, "but..."

Giles points up towards the ceiling saying, "if he can survive that he can bloody well survive the journey back to your house..."

"My house?" She questions.

"Unless you want to explain how he came to be like that... Or why he's still alive," Giles points out. "We can find a doctor that we trust and have them come to your house, but we need to get out of here now. I don't know why Glory, or her minions haven't gotten down here yet, but I'd rather not wait around to find out why."

Buffy nods glad to have Giles take charge for the moment since she isn't thinking to clearly. With as much care and ease, as she can afford to use, she easily picks him up. "Not quite how I imagined our first reunion," she mumbles softly so no one can hear her.


	6. Chap 6: No Lullaby

**Chapter Six: No Lullaby**

A soft pop and a wispy cloud of grey sulfureous smoke appear in the center of the suite's main room announcing Kurt Wagner's rather unusual arrival. He sucks in a deep breath regaining his bearings. Four maximum distance jumps, with a passenger - to get from Glory's penthouse loft to the suite Charles Xavier is renting for Logan and himself - had a way of taking the wind out of his sails. With a quick look he insures the blinds and curtains are drawn tight.

"Now that I've got you here," Kurt murmurs glancing down at the unconscious vampire cradled in his arms. With a handful of steps he crosses the floor to the room's large sofa, "What am I suppose to do with you? Don't think you're going to wake up anytime soon to give me a hint?" He asks as he gingerly settles the bruised and battered vampire down onto the extremely soft and plush couch. "At least I don't have to worry about multiple ports killing you," he says to himself only partially relieved.

Shifting his gaze to the front door the German born mutant exhales softly knowing Logan wouldn't be back already and not sure if he wants his friend to come in, but still hoping he would already. If for no other reason then piece of mind, just so he would know Logan is all right.

Not that he thought of Logan as incapable of taking care of himself, but there is just something about Glory that has him on edge. The woman is a physical power house, possibly stronger then anybody he has ever come across in his life.

If Logan actually confronted her. Alone and without back up . . .

Kurt knew he should be there. Knew Logan wasn't going to back down or run from a fight no matter how over matched he is. He could feel an agonizing pain over leaving Logan in the lurch like he did, but he just couldn't allow Spike to throw his life away either.

If that's what his plan had been.

Which he believes it had been.

Kurt looks back at Spike. He couldn't just leave him lying on the sofa. Not in the condition he is in. If somebody were to come in and sees him, checks his vitals, they would find a corpse lying there.

And he couldn't just teleport back over. Not after carrying Spike from there. Which meant after finding a place to hide the vampire he is going to have to liberate a car from somewhere.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Xander's truck screeches to a stop, digging up a small chunk of Buffy's front lawn as Xander overshoots her driveway slightly. A small plume of white smoke rises into the air.

Buffy doesn't seem to care as she leaps out of the back, Logan cradled in her delicate arms, even before the vehicle finishes lurching to a full stop. Her only thought is getting into the house, calling and then convincing Ben to get here as fast as he can.

In the back of her mind, the deep recesses she doesn't have any control over, unbidden, she wonders how Spike is fairing. There would be more concern over the bleached blonde vampire if it wasn't for the fact she is fairly positive of who abducted him.

She's sprinting for the door as her feet touch the ground.

"Go. Open the front door before Buffy kicks it down," Giles tells Buffy's android clone as the real slayer races across the front yard. It's the only thing that even has a chance of beating Buffy to the front door. With no hesitation the android leaps from the back of the pick and darts after Buffy.

The passenger door opens as the truck shuts down allowing Willow to slip through the opening. Giles leaps out of the back of the truck with a somewhat graceful vault. Xander hops out of the front door just as Giles hits the ground and quickly shuts the door behind him.

The tiny blonde hair android just beats the tiny blonde hair slayer to the front door, by a bare fraction. With a sharp twist of the knob she shoves the door open. Buffy doesn't even pause brushing past the android and bolting up the stairs.

"You should say thank you," the android says stepping into the house with a worrisome half frown splitting her face. "When somebody does something for you, you should always say thank you," she states. Her processors begin working on likely reasons why Buffy didn't say thank you.

It clicks in her head like a light bulb going off. Concern for her father's well being is why. She feels a little of that as well. In a way Logan is almost like her father as well. True Warren had built her but he didn't really care for her.

Mostly however it is Spike that she worries over. Logan's friend, Kurt Wagner, simply disappeared with him only seconds before their arrival. How he managed to vanish in the manner that he did she did not know. Nor did she know where Spike had been taken or when Kurt is going to bring him back. Those are the questions racing along her wire and silicon pathways.

"What's going on?" Dawn demands coming out of the pallor after hearing the raucous at the front door. The entire morning has seemed surreal to the young girl. From the moment she woke up to find Buffy gone, but Tara and Anya waiting for her in the kitchen with breakfast ready. She had questioned them, about what was going on, why they had been there and not Buffy? Only neither of them had been very forthcoming with the information.

"Dawn." Buffy greets brightly, a brilliant smile lighting her face. "My sister," she adds tussling her hair affectionately before pulling her into a tight embrace. "With the exception of Spike you are the most important person to me."

"Ugh," Dawn grunts pushing Buffy off her. "That's really great Buffy, but . . . "

"Buffy," Giles calls out interrupting Dawn. "Where did Buffy go?" He questions the android, a stern edge to her voice, just as Anya and Tara emerge from the kitchen through the short hall.

Dawn's eyes widen as she wonders what Giles has been drinking this early in the morning. Buffy however doesn't even look at him as she says, "she went upstairs with her biological father." Giles nods his head, but doesn't respond otherwise, instead rushing up the stairs taking them two at a time.

She looks at her sister, at who she thinks is her sister, confusion clearly evident in her face. "Buffy?" she nearly whispers.

"Yes, Dawn. Would you like me to make you something? A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or perhaps a nice warm cup of coco with those little fluffy marshmallows?" She offers brightly, never once losing her overlarge smile.

"Are you insane?" Dawn squawks, her sister's behavior completely flustering her.

Buffy tilts her head to the side, curiosity replacing her overly cheerful expression for a brief moment. "I do not believe I was programmed for mental instability."

"You've flip. Totally . . . "

Tara steps up to Dawn, placing her hands on the teens shoulders in an attempt to keep her calm. "Dawn, honey." The youngster looks up and back, eyes pleading. "I'm sorry. We should have told you about this early, but . . . "

"This ain't Buffy," Xander cuts in stepping through the doorway.

"Are you blind?" She demands softly.

"She's a robot," Willow answers a mild frown slipping across her lips just before she corrects herself by saying, "technically she's an android."

"Spike had her built so he could have sex with her," Anya finishes for the redhead.

Dawn's eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets as her head swivels between the adults, looking at them as if they had all lost their minds in the last few minutes. "If you don't want to tell me what's going on, then don't. But don't treat me like I'm some kind of immature baby that has to be lied to," she grumbles a moment shoving her way through her sister, and by extension, her closest friends. Although with the way they've been treating her lately she's not so sure if they really are her friends.

The four people, and one android, watch in varying states of confusion and bewilderment. "What just happened?" Xander question, looking at his companions, once he's recovered from his shock.

"Someone needs to go talk with her," Tara murmurs causing everyone's eyes to focus in on her.

"I'll do it," Buffy offers cheerily. Everyone's head swings around to gawk at the machine standing in their midst. "What should I talk with her about?" She idly wonders.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Giles pauses briefly before entering the master bedroom. Logan is lying on his back. He is still having a hard time believing what his eyes are seeing. Not to mention what they are not seeing.

The lack of blood. It's as if the man's body refuses to allow even a single drop to escape the confines of his body. The massive wounds have all sealed themselves up tight around the offending objects protruding from his body. His chest rises and falls, its slow, steady cadence is like a declaration, a refusal to surrender, to give up.

It is also an aberration as far as Giles is concerned. No man, no human, should be able to live with a piece of steel punching a whole through their heart. It just isn't possible.

"Ben."

The sound of Buffy's voice slices through Giles's haze. Tearing his eyes off of Logan he quickly locates the tiny blonde as her powerful strides carry her back across the floor, where she stops at the foot of her mother's bed to gaze down upon her father.

"Yeah, it's me," she responds to his unheard question. With her left hand she brushes her hair back, worry, fear, and a touch of wild abandon shine brightly in her eyes. "I really hate put you on the spot like this, but . . . I need a really big favor." Her hand quivers on the phone as she listens for a moment. "My father, he's hurt . . . I can't take him . . . It's complicated. No! He's not a fugitive. He just can't go to the hospital," she growls menacingly into the phone. She gives her head a light shake after the words have left her mouth. "Sorry," she breathes out quickly. "There's no one else I trust . . . Ten minutes. Just come right up . . . And thanks Ben, Thanks for doing this."

A moment later Buffy allows her right hand, along with the phone in it, to fall to her side. Her body doesn't lose any of the tension it has been storing up since first finding Logan under that pile of rubble. She exhales sharply, rigidly.

Giles places his left hand on the shoulder closest to him and gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "He's going to be fine," he says into the silence. "You have to believe that," he adds as Buffy pivots her head slightly to look up at him. "I don't know how, or why, but his body seems more then capable of sustaining his life despite a dozen or more mortal injuries. I don't think it's going to stop doing that in the . . . "

"Wow," Dawn breathes out softly coming into the room having managed to sneak up on the two adults. Her view of the bed obscured by the pair. Buffy begins to move as Dawn starts saying, "Spike really had a. . . . " Her voice stops dead as she spots the bloody figure lying on the bed a moment before Buffy steps in front of her. Dawn instantly tries to bolt forward. Her voice quivers as she demands, "what happened?"

Buffy grabs hold of Dawn preventing her from moving ahead. "Glory," she answers in a soft, urgent whisper. "Glory happened. Logan and Kurt rescued Spike, but . . . " She looks back at the bed, her body shivering slightly.

Dawn tries to push forward again. Only Buffy's preternatural strength holds her in place. "Its not fair . . . Its not right!"

"He's going to be all right," Buffy informs her. "He must have some kind of healing power that's keeping him alive, and Ben's coming. He should be here in a few minutes. Then . . . " She stops and pulls Dawn into a tight hug. She didn't know what else she could say. Didn't know how to comfort her little sister.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Duncan swings the driver's door shut as he glances at the large, dark blue, heavy duty pick up truck, with the red and white stripe, parked askew, partially in the driveway, but mostly on the lawn of sixteen-thirty Revello drive. Aside from that there is nothing remarkable about the property. A middle class home in the middle of a middle class neighborhood.

He gives a little half shrug as he smooths down his navy blue sports jacket, buttoning up the two bottom buttons. Pulling upon the back dark he grabs his dark brown, thigh length leather coat out of the back seat and slips it on. The weight of his sword pulling at him.

"Seems like someone was in a bit of a hurry," Amanda says as the passenger side door clicks shut. There isn't a speck of dirt on her. From her white boots with three inch heels to her white satin slacks, rose-colored silk wrap around blouse, fur-lined duster, and silk head scarf that complete her ensemble.

He gives a slight nod saying, "hopefully there's nothing wrong." The back door makes a soft click as it closes.

Amanda steps around the front of the car, carefully avoiding the small spots of dirt and mud as she leaves the curb across the street from the Summer's home. She looks across at the two story structure.

Duncan slips his arm around her waist, guiding her as they cross the two lane road, and up the walkway. Reaching the stairs he slips around to her right side as they climb them. On the top step he reaches out with his right hand, leans forward slightly, and presses the doorbell.

"Didn't you like it better when all the houses had were those big, gaudy, gothic looking knockers? Those really let people know you were there. Loud booms that could wake up entire neighborhoods, not like these soft, twinkling doorbells. Couldn't frighten away a mouse." Amanda muses standing there.

He smirks lightly at her. "That's funny. I figured you would have preferred it the other way. Nice and quiet."

"Only when I don't want people to know I'm there," Amanda quantifies, a light quirk to the corners of her lips and a glint in her eyes.

The smiles fade from their faces as they sense Dawn approaching the door. Duncan pushes the sleeve of his jacket up slightly to check the time to make sure they aren't too early. He rocks on his heels for a moment as he slips his hands into his pants pocket.

A polite grin slips back on his lips a bare moment before the door opens and the smile drops fractionally seeing the young girl's long face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and still glistening wetly.

"Are you all right?" Amanda asks quickly as she takes a step forward.

Dawn scrubs at her cheeks giving a sharp nod. "Yeah, I'm fine," she says softly. It is the truth. Ben left just a short time ago, maybe ten to fifteen minutes. After he had removed all the shrapnel he could from Logan's body.

It had been strange seeing the pieces of steel, wood, and other materials that Ben had taken out of her father. All of it had the look of being dissolved, like something inside Logan's body has been eating away at the foreign substances at a phenomenal rate.

After wiping her eyes, clearing away the tears from her face, she gets a better look at the two sharply dressed people standing on her front porch. "Hi," she greets them with a little more life in her voice. "Amanda, Duncan," Dawn adds as their names pop into her head. "I thought you guys were leaving after the funeral."

Amanda smiles lightly while patting Duncan on the shoulder. Her eyes automatically taking in the house's interior, soft beige carpeting, warm floral patterned wallpaper, cozy little nick knacks displayed openly. Exactly what she has come to expect in a warm family home. "What can I say?" She begins in a light tone. "Duncan has become so enamored with your little town. So much so he's decided to buy into one of the local businesses." She tilts her head lightly as soft voices drift to her from nearby. Whatever the topic of discussion is those doing the discussing are making sure not to be overheard.

Dawn's eyes brighten. "Really, so that means we're going to be seeing a lot more of you, doesn't it?"

"It's definitely possible," Duncan answers.

Her eyes scrunch up as she remembers the conversation that took place between her and Buffy yesterday. A conversation brought on by a phone call. "You're the one who's buying the Gallery?"

He nods mildly surprised by her intuition. "I was supposed to be meeting with Buffy this morning, but if it's not a good time right now I can always comeback tomorrow, or even the day after," he offers graciously.

"Nonsense," Dawn says. "Come on in," she adds stepping aside. "Make yourselves comfortable I'll just go find Buffy," the brunette finishes pushing the door close. With that she turns on her heels and quickly darts up the stairs.

"We have to find him," Xander growls. "Either that or get the hell out of town. There's no way to know what he told Glory."

"If he told Glory anything, don't you think she would be here already?" Willow inquires as she picks up another book from the pile.

Xander plops down on the couch, an exasperated breath exploding from his lungs. "Who knows what . . . "

Tara touches his arm as she gestures with her head to the foyer.

The conversation in the living room cuts off abruptly as Amanda steps into view. The four youths sitting in the room cast curious, but guarded glances at her. Scattered amongst the gathered group are several stacks of ancient tombs.

Duncan steps around her to see what's caught her attention. He vaguely recognizes all of them from the funeral several days ago. Obviously they are close friends of the Summers sisters. A wan smile slips across his lips, before he turns around. It however never touches his eyes.

"Why, hello there," Buffy greets the pair of strangers in a bright, overly enthusiastic voice as she emerges from the hall leading to the kitchen.

Both Amanda and Duncan shift, startled by her sudden appearance. They had only met Buffy for a few minutes the other day, but even that brief meeting is more then enough for them to realize something isn't right about the woman standing in front of them. Like the fact that she has no life force.

Duncan recovers a moment quicker than Amanda as he extends his hand to Buffy doppleganger. There would be time enough to figure out what is going on here afterwards. From the pallor he hears the sound of people getting hastily to their feet. "It's good to see you again," he says pleasantly as the tiny blonde takes his hand.

Buffy blinks warmly as she tries to process what the stranger just said. This man's image is nowhere in her memory circuits therefor she has never seen him before, but he might have seen her so he might be seeing her again and his statement would be accurate, from his perspective. She shakes his hand vigorously as she says, "it is good for you to see me again." He frowns slightly at her mildly conceited remark.

"Mary!" Buffy calls out from the top of the stairs, a cold edge to her voice. Both Duncan and Amanda jerk their heads up at, with the exception of the clothes she is wearing, the mirror image of the . . . Thing, shaking Duncan's hand. "Has anybody introduced Duncan and Amanda to you?" She asks regaining some of her composure as she starts down the stairs.

The android frowns at her human predecessor. She thought Buffy was trying to tell her something, but she's unsure exactly what and intuition isn't any part of her programming. Still she thought it would be for the best if she answers Buffy question. "No, I haven't been."

Buffy's smile is a touch on the bland side as she says, "this is Duncan Macleod and Amanda . . . "

"Deverioux," Amanda supplies.

"...Deverioux," Buffy repeats. "Duncan. Amanda. This is my cousin Mary Summers."

Amanda shakes her head, the smallest of movements. "The resemblance is uncanny."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt pulls the rental car to the side of the road a full two blocks from Buffy's home. He had spent nearly all of the last three hours searching through the ruins, and with all the damage, both structural and cosmetic, that truly is the only way to describe what remains of Glory's apartment complex. With the single exception of a medium build, brown hair man, carrying a medical bag walking across the manicured grass when he first arrived he hadn't seen a single sign of life what so ever.

He had crawled, shimmied, and teleported his way around the building. If anybody lived there, they hadn't been around in quite some time. Months perhaps. While he didn't have Logan's skill in tracking or his enhanced senses it wasn't like he needed them on this occasion. The cobwebs and the dust built up in the apartments he went through had been evidence of just how much time has passed since people lived there.

At the time, when he saw the man with the physicians bag, Kurt hadn't thought anything of it, but after not finding anybody the man's presence was extremely suspicious.

Once he had established that Logan wasn't any where in the building there was only one option left open to him. In an unknown town, with no idea who the players were Kurt's only choice was going to Buffy and hope that she might have some idea on how to find his missing friend.

Which is why he is here now.

Taking a deep breath, he studies his destination, fixing it perfectly in his mind, the home of the Summers sisters. He cracks the window slightly, not seeing the point in letting the sulfureous stench his teleportation leaves behind to linger in an inclosed vehicle, and vanishes with a soft pop. A soft cloud grey smoke begins to float out the window.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"It really is incredible," Buffy agrees. "Everybody always assumes we're twins."

"I'd say. The two of you are nearly identical," Duncan replies. His gaze shifting sporadically between the two of them as he tries to figure out what the other Buffy is. Unfortunately he only knew two kinds of creatures that didn't exude any kind of life force. Ahzriel, a demon he had defeated, and the vampire Spike.

He didn't think the other Buffy is either of those. She didn't have the sense of dark malevolence that both of the others exuded. That is the problem though. She doesn't exude anything at all. She's standing right in front of him but there's nothing that he can feel.

Standing just in the pallor; Willow, Tara, Xander, Anya - for the most part - watch intently, hanging on every word. Xander looks like he wants to interject, but is thinking better of it every time he glances at Buffy. Anya appears extremely bored and would be just as happy elsewhere.

Tara appears nervous, fidgety. Like she is seeing something she's not sure she wants to see. Or can believe. Something too fantastical to be real.

Willow appears ready, perhaps just a little too eager, to jump into the conversation if it appears that Buffy, for even the smallest moment, is going to flounder. Fortunately for all concerned the tiny blonde has yet to falter.

From the second floor landing Giles stares down on the proceedings with hard, weighing eyes. Duncan's accent is easily recognizable as Scottish even though there is something just slightly off with it.

Suddenly both tiny blondes swivel their heads, their gazes shifting toward the front door. Curiosity and concern settle on the android's and Buffy's face respectively. Following the twin's lead Duncan cast his gaze toward the front door and realizes that somebody is there. While Amanda glances up in the direction of Dawn and another person up stairs.

Duncan frowns, an expression that the android mirrors, as the life force that had been outside the hardwood door simply vanishes. He had only just picked up on it but he is positive the person didn't just back out of range. He didn't know anyone that could move that fast. One instant it was there the next it isn't.

Buffy's head shifts as if she's following something that is not there. A bare fraction of a second later, right where Buffy is looking down the short back hall, there's a soft popping sound proceeding a small cloud of gray sulfureous smelling smoke and a bipedal, blue skin, man size - dark trench coat wearing - creature, with a striking golden eyes, that are almost completely hidden by the fedora pulled low over his brow.

Xander's eyes widen as he recognizes the man, mutant, creature from Spike's crypt. Without thinking about it he places himself in front of the three girls. Duncan's hand automatically jerks to the sword tucked away inside his coat. If he had ever seen something demonic, it's this beast before him. Only there is something about the creature that tugs at the back of his mind. Something recent, but nothing he recalls fully.

Even Amanda's hand inches closer to her own blade until she gets a good look at the person that had just materialized out of nowhere. Willow gasps, shocked by Kurt's sudden appearance and his decidedly demonic visage. A binding spell springs to her mind without conscious thought.

The android smiles brilliantly. After all this is the mutant, whatever that is, that rescued Spike three hours and twelve minutes ago. Only Spike isn't with him now. The smile slips. From her face as a frown slides across her features and she begins to wonder what could have happened to Spike since she last saw him three hours and thirteen minutes ago.

From the landing above Giles sees both Amanda and Duncan reaching into their coats as if they have weapons secreted on themselves. Silently he slips down the hall toward Buffy's room and the weapon locker she keeps stored there. He fervently hopes to be back before the maelstrom breaks out, but he doubts it.

Buffy takes a step forward, her body instinctively settling into a fighting stance. Before she can take another, or launch into an attack, Kurt raises his hands in the universal sign peace. "I don't mean to pop in unannounced Fraulein, but Logan's missing. I believe he went and did something incredible stupid and got himself into something he can't get out of on his own. Plus I have a seriously injured vampire on my hands that probably needs medical attention and I've no idea how to help him." He speaks in a rush hoping to get everything out before the young woman before him decides to attack just because of what he looks like.

Buffy relaxes slightly, a bare lessening of the tension infusing her body. "Who are you?" She asks already having a very good idea who he is from, first Dawn's and then later Xander's description.

Kurt bends at the waist ever so slightly. A devilish smile playing at his lips. "Kurt Wagner, a friend of Logan's and hopefully your's as well. Given a little time," he answers.

Amanda's eyes narrow, honing in on the familiar looking man standing in the hall. She gives her head a short, sharp shake. She had thought it was him, after all how many blue skin people can there be running around the world anyway. The name however confirms what she had thought.

Kurt's gaze shifts from the taller then average platinum blonde standing by the front door to Buffy's android double as she begins moving toward him. There is something very familiar about the blonde, but he can't, for the life of him, put his finger on what it is.

"What have you done with Spike?" She demands advancing on him only to be pulled up short. Buffy's small hand wraps around her upper arm.

"He's safe," Kurt answers the machine as she glances at Buffy's hand. "I wasn't about to let anything happen to him. Not after what that verdamat woman did to him. Not after what he was willing to do to keep Dawn safe."

"What do you mean?" Buffy demands as her eyes become riveted to him. "What Spike was willing to do?"

Kurt shifts his gaze slightly bringing it back to bear on the twin blondes standing in front of him. One human one a machine. Both showing signs of strain from some internal struggle.

"This seems to be a rather inconvenient time," Duncan begins his voice slicing through the silence. Only Kurt seems aware of it as his gaze shifts briefly before returning to the two blondes. "There appears to be quite a bit that requires your attention today. Perhaps it would be better if we rescheduled for a day or . . . "

"Don't move," Giles unusually harsh voice cuts Duncan off and draws every eye toward him. A crossbow in each hand; one leveled at Duncan and the other targeted on Amanda.

"What the . . . " Duncan starts, his brown eyes hardening. While he might be use to having weapons aimed at him, he still didn't like it. Besides it has been more then a century since anyone aimed a crossbow at him.

"Giles?" Buffy starts, the one word seeming to voice a thousand different questions.

Kurt looks upward. He could teleport up there, get behind the man before anyone knew he was there. Maybe he could. Maybe . . . But what if he didn't get there until after the man, Giles, releases his bolts.

"They're armed," he informs Buffy.

Who, if possible tenses and relaxes at the same time while her head swivels toward them. A frown settling on her face as she asks, "are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be without seeing the weapons," he answers. His voice more then a touch wary. "When Logan's friend . . . Popped in they begin reaching inside their coats. They could be agents working for Glory."

"But they might not," Buffy responds.

"I don't think they are," Tara stammers slowly. "There's no evil in their auras," she informs Buffy and the others. Her eyes dart downward for a brief moment before returning to the two immortals.

Duncan catches a knowing light playing in her eyes. There for a brief moment before she catches him staring at her and she ducks her head again out of embarrassment. Willow takes Tara's hand in her own, offering her lover her strength if she needs it. Her green eyes flicker upward, catching Duncan's brown, a warning clearly evident in her glare.

Giles doesn't waver as he gazes down at the pair. "If they're not working for Glory then I'll face whatever charges they chose to bring, but we simply can't afford to run the risk that they are working for her."

"This is ridiculous," Amanda huffs her stance shifting ever so slightly.

"Don't move," Giles reiterates. He doesn't move a muscle but he gives the impression of firming his aim.

"Or what?" Amanda challenges him. "You're going to shoot me?" She knew it was risk, but she also knew it was one that she has to take. If this is in fact the same Kurt Wagner that she knew more then two decades earlier, which she didn't see how it couldn't be, then she couldn't afford to have him recognize her. "I don't think so," she finishes turning toward the door.

The sound of the crossbow being fired sounds like a thunderclap to Kurt's ears. He reacts desperately. Instinctively. He vanishes from where he had been standing - with a soft pop and a cloud of smoke - to reappear almost instantly at Amanda's side in another cloud of sulfureous smoke and displaced air. Grabbing hold of her arm, he disappears. A split second later, a fraction of a second after they vanish in another cloud of smoke, the crossbow bolt slams into the door a good inch away from where Amanda had been standing.

"Snot," Giles scowls. He hadn't even been close to hitting the woman, he only needed to make a point, but thanks to the renegade member of the Blue Man Group, that plan had been shot to hell.

At the top of the stairs Amanda and Kurt reappear with a pop of displaced air and a small cloud of grey smoke. Amanda feels a sudden jolt of motion sickness sweep through her, but she shoves it down for the moment.

Duncan's gaze instantly shifts up as Amanda reappears. He feels her quickening surge through him as if she had just step within range even though she hasn't move more then a dozen feet. Giles looks at the sudden disturbance almost at his side. Anya ducks back into the pallor trying to find sufficient cover. Xander takes another step forward while Willow places herself in front of Tara. A whole host of spells springing to mind. The two lovers instinctively tightening their grip on each other's hand.

Kurt's eyes widen in recognition as he holds their precarious balance on the top of the stairs. "It is you!" He exclaims softly, his eyes lighting up with a sense of joy that hasn't found him to often in recent years.

Amanda jerks back reflexively pulling Kurt over with her as she topples backward. As he begins to fall forward, his tail lashes out wrapping around the banister holding them in place.

She gives him a light shrug, a playful smile creasing her lips. "It's been awhile Moppet," she remarks with a twinkle in her eyes.

Kurt shakes his head in disbelieve. "You look . . . "

"I know," she agrees before he finishes.

"You hair . . . "

"It has been almost twenty-five years. Can't a girl change her hair style?" She questions indignantly.

He pulls her up so she isn't in any danger of falling. "I was going to say it looks good." He gives his head another shake as his tail pulls him up. "How?"

"That's something we're going to have to have a chat about." She takes a quick, but casual look around before quietly adding, "when we have a little bit of privacy."

Duncan stares at Buffy as her head swivels upward, toward Amanda and Kurt. He knew Amanda had said something having seen her jaw working. He even had some idea as to what she said. But she had spoken far too softly for him to hear her. That obviously wasn't the case where Buffy is concerned.

"This is about as private as it's going to get so you might as well start singing your little heart out," the blonde comments dryly. Her face hardens, becoming cold as she adds, "before I become irritated."

"You become irritated," Duncan mumbles incredulously.

"Hey," Xander starts stepping forward. A menacing scowl on his face. "No sudden moves buddy. Hands away from your pockets."

Duncan glances at the boy before ignoring him and returning to Buffy as she places a restraining hand on his arm. "You take us hostage. Giles there holds us captive at the point of a crossbow and you're going to become irritated. Now that's rich."

"Maybe it would be best if everyone takes a step back, a deep breath and relaxes," Kurt suggests diplomatically.

"Easy for you to say Mr. I can disappear and go wherever I want," Xander snaps.

"Yeah," Amanda mutters as her eyes narrow and she slaps Kurt's shoulder. "Why didn't you get me out of here?"

"Hey," Dawn hisses in a low dangerous tone as she closes the door to the master bedroom. Her sudden appearance, as well as the tone of her voice brings everyone's eyes to her. "You people mind keeping it down, or if you're bound and determined to have a knock down, drag out fight, could you at least take it outside?" She makes a disgusted face as she gets a good whiff of the air. "And could someone please open a window. Let some fresh air in here?" She inquires pointedly. Holding everyone's attention for a few moments she gives a sharp nod then cracks the bedroom door ever so slightly and slips back inside leaving everyone to stare at the space she had just vacated.

Duncan's expression remains dark, foreboding as he plucks the crossbow bolt from the hardwood door. It softens some what, not a lot but a little, as his gaze shifts to encompass both blondes standing a few feet away. "So are we going to sit down and discuss, whatever the hell is going on around here like rational people, or should we just take your sister up on her suggestion?"

Buffy exhales slowly, allowing the tension to simply vanish as she draws herself back from the edge of sudden violence. "There's a dining room in the back. It should be . . . "

"Not to be the wet blanket here, but I still have a missing friend to find and a vampire that requires medical attention," Kurt reminds Buffy sensing that the threat of imminent conflict has been averted thanks to Dawn's interruption.

"Right," she groans out in a soft voice. "Sorry, everything just sort of . . . " She stops, shrugs lightly then continues adding, "with all the excitement." She takes a shallow breath before she starts again. "Logan's here. He was hurt, but he's recovering quickly." Kurt's head automatically shifts to the door Dawn had just disappeared behind. Buffy's next comment confirms what he suspects. "Dawn's with him right now."

Kurt nods at the statement as he shifts his attention back to Buffy. "What about Spike?"

Giles locks eyes with Buffy. His entire face hardening, becoming distant. "I can take care of Spike," he informs her.

"I think it would be much better if I took care of Spike," Buffy's robotic double suggests suggestively.

Kurt turns on Giles, his inhuman visage sending a shiver down the older man's spine as he glimpses the mutants anger. "The man was willing to sacrifice himself to insure Dawn's safety."

"He was trying to escape," Xander interjects coldly. "He was like ten feet from the front door when you showed up and . . . Got him out of there."

"And what was on the other side of that door?" He demands hotly, Anger that some people couldn't or wouldn't see what was right in front of them. The pitch of his voice making his words sound more like a growl.

"Freedom," Xander snaps.

"Sunlight," Kurt corrects.

"We were right there. Coming to the rescue."

Kurt just stares at him without saying anything. As if he already knew the truth about what they were doing there. And that truth had nothing to do with a rescue attempt.

Buffy glances at the floor guiltily. "Giles," she murmurs as she looks up at her watcher. "Go with Kurt. Bring Spike back here." She looks over at her double. "Mary can make a spot in the basement to nurse our reluctant hero back to health."

The android smiles at Buffy. "I'll go down right now," she says with an unmatched enthusiasm. Turning sharply on her heel, she heads back down the corridor into the kitchen. "Spike will be so happy . . . " Her voice fades as she moves out of earshot.

"Xander, go with her," she orders her long time friend. Xander gives her a disgruntle look. "Make sure she doesn't break anything important."

"Buffy," Giles begins a strong tone of discouragement tinging his voice.

"No argument Giles," she cuts him off. The tone of her voice doesn't allow for any debates on the matter. "Spike's been there with us since Glory first showed up. He's helped us fight her, protected Dawn when he could have walked away from the entire thing. Or worst yet turned her over. Like it or not Spike is on our side in this."

"He's a vampire," Xander gripes as if that one statement of fact should make everything slip back into its rightful place.

Buffy's gaze shifts to the brunette still standing at her side. "Who went against his own sire to help me defeat Angelus?" She reminds them. She didn't add that the only reason he did that was so he could get some payback on the man that took his century long lover away from him. "Spike might be an evil bastard, but he's an evil bastard that likes the world just the way it is."

"I'll go with them," Duncan offers out of the blue. He didn't really trust Giles. Especially after the man taking a pot shot at Amanda with a crossbow. He wouldn't put it past the Englishman to do something that would ensure Spike's demise.

Amanda's eyes speak volumes as they plead with Duncan not to leave her alone. Duncan smiles trusting Amanda's ability to turn any situation to her advantage. "Amanda can stay here. You two can talk. Me and Giles can have ourselves a conversation," he finishes giving Giles a rather pointed glare.

Buffy nods as she says, "go ahead."

Giles lets out a small disgruntle huff as he lowers his crossbow. Kurt starts back down the stairs. Giles begins to follow then stops. Glancing at Amanda, he hands her the unarmed crossbow. "If you wouldn't mind?" He says then descends the rest of the way Down the stairs.

Amanda scowls at Giles back as she contemplates several things she would like to do to the Englishman. Duncan smiles seeing the glint in Amanda's eyes.

"Kurt Wagner," Kurt greets extending his hand to Duncan.

Duncan glances at the source of the voice then blinks getting his first good look at Kurt; the sharp blue skin, golden eyes, upswept ears. A truly demonic visage. Then he remembers what he just did keeping Amanda alive.

Willow steps up to Buffy making sure to keep a close eye on both Duncan and Kurt. "Buffy," she starts quietly. "I need to pick up a few things at the Magic Box."

"Duncan McCleod," Duncan replies accepting the three finger hand. Duncan makes a promise to himself to find out from Kurt how pulled off his vanishing trick. He hadn't seen Kurt do anything unusual, but he knew every street hustler relied on some sort of slight of hand or misdirection to perform even the smallest of tricks. "Nice to meet you."

Buffy glances at Willow out of the corner of her eye. "What for?"

"We just don't have the right research material," she remarks with a tiny head shake. "To find a spell that will help Logan regain his memory."

"Wish it was under better circumstances," Kurt replies shaking hands.

"Why don't you take Tara and Anya with you?" Buffy suggest.

Duncan nods in understanding. For a brief second his gaze flickers to Amanda and he asks, "so. You know Amanda?"

"Ja," Kurt says with a nod. "For about four years." He glances over his shoulder, catching sight of her out of the corner of his eye. "When I was about four or five, this strange dark-haired woman came blundering out of a blistering winter storm. The Kalderash . . . "

Giles hears the name Kalderash, Jenny's clan name, and he instantly begins paying closer attention to their conversation, without seeming to pay any attention to what they are saying.

It is too much of a coincident that not only does Kurt Wagner have a connection to Jenny's clan, but so didn't Amanda. As far as he is concerned, coincidences that big simply do not exist.

". . .The clan of Gypsy's that I was left with as a child, took her in. I remember she was delirious, suffering from exposure, going on about people being after her. Wanting to cut her head off. Living forever. At the time I thought it was nothing more then lunacy caused from her condition. Now though," he finishes leaving the thought hanging there.

"Why don't you let Tara and Anya handle the research for the spell?" Buffy suggest taking Willow by the arm and turning her around. Dropping her voice to a barely audible whisper she says, "I want you to try and figure out a way to reprogram that damn robot. I don't want to hear myself going on about the greatness that is Spike."

"Sure," Willow agrees with a short nod.

"Because he isn't," Buffy adds with a sharp, decisive jerk of her head as if convincing herself.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The small shop nestled in the heart of downtown Sunnydale displays a friendly, almost family like atmosphere once ensconced within its warm confines. Several scented candles, chosen for their soothing aromas fill the building with a pleasant fragrance.

Tara bends over the thin tome containing various memory spells, from enhancement to manipulation. Willow sits next to her pouring over a technical manual, programing code and her lab top. Anya stands at the counter absently flipping through another ancient text with no real interest. She is suppose to be helping Tara research memory spells, but she found that to be an extremely tedious, not to mention boring task. She would be much happier if there were lots of customers in the shop, spending large sums of money buying lots of expensive products. She knows that isn't likely to happen with the close sign still posted in the door window.

So far, in her search to find a spell to help Logan regain his memory, Tara has seen any number tantalizing hints, obscure leads, but nothing definitive. There wasn't one spell that jumped out at her screaming, "I'm the one you want!" One spell would have a promising beginning, but the rest of it would lack follow through. Or one would have a good finish, but getting there was like navigating a maze with directions written in a language long dead. Or more likely one that never existed in the first place.

It is beginning to look like her and Willow are going to have to create their own spell in order to restore Logan's lost memory. Or maybe they would just have to piece it together from the parts of the other spells she has found. That could be dangerous though. Combining two or more different types of magic, but creating your own spell could be nearly as dangerous.

"What was that?" Willow asks suddenly.

The sound of her soft voice breaking Tara's concentration. The blonde witch looks up realizing - now that Anya has stopped talking - that Anya has been jabbering away for quite some time now. That she had been so focused on finding a memory restoration spell that she hadn't heard a word the former vengeance demon had said.

Anya frowns. Slightly annoyed that no one had been listening to her, but not really surprised by the fact. Unless she is making some outlandish sexual comment nobody ever pays much attention to what she says. She lets out a short, despondent sigh. "I was just making an observation about the fact that McCleod looks like an immortal D'Hofryn had shown all us girls oh, three hundred or so years ago."

Willow narrows her eyes at the statement. She had only met D'Hofryn once, when she had cast her My Will Be Done Spell, and nearly got all her friends, and Spike, killed. He hadn't really struck her as the kind of demon to be all that interested in humans, unless it was to relish in the suffering. "Why would he do that?"

"Was there something special about him?" Tara puts in a heartbeat later.

Anya shakes her head saying, "aside from being immortal he was just your average ordinary human." She stops frowns slightly. "Well, okay maybe not human," she frowns again, deeper. "You know I never did understand that when D'Hofryn explained it."

"What?" Willow pushes.

"A couple things actually," Anya replies. "Like how can they be immortal yet still have to worry about people killing them. How can they be human if there not born, but created?"

The two lovers share a quick glance before Willow asks, "what are you talking about?"

"And maybe you should start at the beginning," Tara stammers her suggestion right on top of Willow's question.

"At the beginning," Anya mummers to herself as her eyes go vague for a second. "Well the beginning, for me, was right after the ritual that raised me up to a full vengeance demon. D'Hofryn took me aside, like he does to all his new girls, and told me about these immortals that we, all demons, are forbidden from interfering directly with their lives, on the promise of a most agonizing and gruesome death . . . "

"That doesn't make any sense," Willow mumbles to herself.

Anya shrugs as she says, "it didn't make a lot of sense to me either. Especially once I found out that they went around stealing each others life force anyway."

"Why though?" Tara breathes out. "Why would D'Hofryn . . . "

"It wasn't D'Hofryn," Anya cuts in. "The edict was handed down . . . Up," she corrects with a slight shrug, "from the lower beings without any real explanation. Rumor has it that one of the Powers is trying to gain control of some prize. Something that will enable him to gain control over time, space, everything really. Once every thousand years he has an opportunity to convert, corrupt, or somehow get the warrior prophesied to stand against him, to choose his side instead. If that was ever to happen this entity would be able to take control of their body, expunging the former occupant, gain access to his portion of the prize, plus he would also gain dominion over nearly a thousand warriors that can't be killed. But that's just the rumor and we all know how demons just love to embellish and tell tall tales."

"Anya," Willow begins slowly, skeptical about believing what the ancient, young woman has just told her. "Are you trying to say the man that was at Buffy's is some immortal warrior that's supposed to save the world from an eternity of darkness and servitude?"

"How would I know if he's immortal or not?" Anya asks with a light scowl. She hates it when people don't pay attention to what she says. It shows a lack of respect for the speaker. She could remember a time, not all that long ago, when she would have flayed a person alive for such an offense. Or roast them over a low flame, or an extremely intense blaze depending on how much time she had available. Or just ripped there beating heart from their chest and watch the light fade from their eyes. But she is no longer the person - demon - she had been.

"But you just said D'Hofryn showed him to you three hundred years ago," Tara points out.

"No, I said McCleod looks like the immortal D'Hofryn showed all us girls about three hundred years ago!"

"Well don't you have some way to tell if he is immortal or not?" Tara questions with only a slight stammer to her words.

Anya looks up a little as if she's deep in thought. After a moment a smile blooms on her face. "Well," she starts off brightly. "We could always kill him, or try to, and see if he dies or not or if he does if he stays dead. That would be how I'd check."

Tara drops her head to the table with a soft thunk. She knew she should have expected such a response from Anya. It was practical and to the point. The two things Anya always is.

Willow takes a deep breath unconsciously reaching out to rub gentle circles over Tara's back. "There's no other way that you know of?"

Anya shakes her head. "Supposedly there's some kind of organization that keeps tabs on them. They've been doing it as long as I've been alive, so they might know. And before you ask, no. I don't know what their club is called. They have this weird tattoo on their wrist, but I don't know what that looks like either."

Willow sighs. As usual Anya was helpful without really being helpful. She had information, but it wasn't anything useful. She gives her head a small shake before turning back to her research.

Undaunted Anya continues speaking. "If you really want to make the Buffybot act more like Buffy you should just clone Buffy's personality onto it. If you want my opinion though I like the robot just fine the way she is. But that's just my opinion," she finishes with a little shrug.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Amanda sits down at the kitchen island. A strange, peculiar, rather pungent aroma fills the air. Bowls, utensils, flour, various jelly's, peanut butter, half a dozen banana peals, along with a jar of hot and spicy salsa sauce, are scattered all over the counter giving the area the appearance that a miniature hurricane swept through while no one was paying attention.

Dawn swings her head back to look at the blonde sitting behind her. The young brunette gives her a shy, almost apologetic smile, as if saying, "sorry your stuck here," without actually speaking. She gestures with her head toward the griddle covering the stove's four burners. "You want some?" She asks with a youthful exuberance.

Amanda smiles politely as she asks, "what are you making?"

"Pancakes. With peanut butter, grape, raspberry, and strawberry jelly, banana, chocolate, vanilla, and a touch of salsa sauce." Dawn answers turning back toward the stove so she misses Amanda's frown. "Do you know how to make pancakes?" She asks a hopeful smile creeping across her lips.

Amanda shakes her head lightly. "My skills don't really center in the kitchen," she answers with a sad smile. "I've been told, by people I trust, my culinary talents could be tantamount to attempted murder. Generally, if I want something to eat, I order room service. Or go out. Why?"

A small frown creeps over her lips. "I think something's wrong with them."

"Like what?" Amanda questions, trying to be courteous and not poke fun at the girl, as she stands up and walks around the small island.

Dawn shrugs as she mumbles, "I don't know. Mom made them all the time, and Tara's made them a few times since . . . " She stops taking a deep breath.

"It's all right," Amanda assures her as she reaches out and gives her left shoulder a gentle squeeze. She is glad she never had a family to lose all those years ago. It's an experience she is glad to have forgone. Even losing Rebecca, the only mother she has ever known, is nothing compared with what Dawn is going through. Death hovers over every immortal out there and one is always prepared for the loss of even those closest to you.

As she squeezes Dawn's shoulder, she can feel a surge of, what she can only think of as motherly concern. It isn't that she thinks of Dawn as daughter, but it might be one of, if not her only chance to play the part of a mother to a young girl.

True she had spent quite some time with Kenneth after his first death. Raising him, helping him adjust to life as an immortal. But this is something different. This is a chance to watch a young girl grow and mature into a woman. To possibly help mold the type of person she'll become. Like Duncan had done with Richie.

It isn't even something she's sure she wants. She isn't the type of person anybody would consider a role model. She's been a thief just about her entire life with only brief stints on the side of right.

Dawn takes a deep breath as she turns around. "It's just," she stops taking another breath. "Logan's upstairs and he was hurt and I just want to make something special for when he wakes up."

"Logan?"

A tentative half smile quirks a corner of her mouth. "My dad," she whispers. Amanda nods suspecting as much. "He was in a fight this morning."

"With this Glory person Giles thought Duncan and I were working for?"

"Yeah," Dawn says with a little nod. "But then again he's a watcher and they're suspicious of everything anyway."

Amanda's face freezes as her mind races. Giles is a watcher and Dawn knew it. Did that mean she knows she is immortal as well? Only that didn't make any sense. Buffy had known nothing about immortals when they had talked earlier. She quickly wipes her face clean before Dawn looks back up. "A watcher? What's that?" She asks quickly before anything comes to mind.

Dawn shrugs as she says, "he suppose to be like Buffy's trainer or teacher or walking encyclopedia about everything supernatural, but he acts more like a father. There's this big old Council, or maybe it's a committee, I'm not really sure, of stuffy old Englishmen responsible for finding and training slayers and keeping them from going evil like Faith."

"Wait a minute," Amanda says urgently cutting Dawn off. The girl is jumping around without giving any real explanation for anything. A habit she must have picked up from her sister. "Buffy mentioned that as well. Slayer."

Dawn gives her a short nod. "Buffy told you she's a slayer and you had no idea what she was talking about right?"

"Sort of," Amanda murmurs. "Your sister can be really intimidating when she wants to be."

Dawn frowns, looking up at the blonde. "I've never noticed," she replies with a shrug.

Amanda shakes her head noticing even more traits the two girls share. It is almost uncanny the way they act alike. "Sisters," she observes sagely. Dawn's eyebrow arches high as Amanda shrugs lightly. "So. Slayers?"

"Right," Dawn mutters. "Slayers. One girl in all the world, though there's two of them right now. I'll get back to that in a minute. So, one girl in all the world chosen to fight the demons and vampires and everything else that's evil. Blessed with the speed and strength and skill to hunt them down and kill. Something like that anyway. Don't ask me who does the choosing cause I don't know. Giles might, plus he'll be able to give you the whole spiel. What you really need to know is she's faster, stronger. Deadly with any weapon she puts her hands on whether she's had any training or none and just as deadly without a weapon. Now when I say faster, stronger I mean like run a cheetah down kind of fast and flip an armored truck over kind of strong."

An amused smile flitters across Amanda's lips. "I know you're proud of your sister Dawn, but you don't have to exaggerate to make her seem larger then life."

"I'm not," Dawn replies a little tint of anger edging her voice. "If anything I'm understating what she's capable of."

Amanda's smile broadens at first, just until she sees the unwavering seriousness in Dawn's eyes. Her smile slips slightly and she swallows reflexively. "Understating?" She repeats with little hitch to the word.

"Uh-huh," Dawn murmurs with a nod.

Amanda blinks several times at Dawn's statement. Twelve hundred years she's been alive and never, not once in all that time has she ever run across anything as remotely supernatural - well there was the Mesuthales stone, but that was more myth and rumor then supernatural - and then this week had to happen.

She had run into William after a hundred years, but he's no longer the determined, yet bumbling poet that had managed to corner her in a London back alley. Instead he is an almost dashing creature of the night. A blood sucking fiend. A vampire.

Although from the few hours they had talked the other night, she had still been able to see a lot of William in William. His Victorian manners were still present in all his action even if they had been buried underneath a hundred years, of what she assumes was an incredibly brutal life after becoming a vampire.

According to Duncan there's also a man running around town that has been alive for nearly two hundred years that isn't immortal.

And today finding out there's this girl destined to fight creatures like William. As far as she's concerned, one girl to stand against the forces of darkness, it all just seems like it might be a tad bit overwhelming for them.

After several minutes of processing everything Dawn has just got through telling her, she gives her head a quiet shake. Then she remembers something else Dawn had said. "You said there's only one slayer at a time, but a moment before you said there are two?"

"Buffy died," Dawn answers with a nonchalant little shrug, "for like a minute or so before Xander resuscitated her. But it was long enough for another slayer to be called. Faith."

"Didn't you say she's evil?"

Dawn nods as she hedges slightly saying, "evil might not be the exactly right word. Disturbed, Maybe? Confused, possibly? Hostile, definitely." She shifts, making a minute adjustment to how she is standing. "Don't get me wrong. She did a lot of bad things. Stole Buffy's body, killed people, poisoned Angel, but," she adds giving a confused shrug, "I don't know. She just never really seemed evil. Not to me anyway. Ask Willow or Xander and they'll tell you she's the closest thing to the anti-Christ to ever walk the planet."

Amanda frowns pensively. "And she has all the same abilities as Buffy? The enhanced strength, speed, all of that?" She asks after a small moment.

"Yeah," Dawn answers with a nod. "But Buffy's better. She always won," she finishes with a tentative shrug.

Amanda knew that didn't really mean anything. She has been around long enough to have seen excellent swordsmen, the finest the world has ever witnessed, lose their heads to incompetent hacks who simply refused to lose. "And where is this Faith now?" She inquires.

"Prison. She turned herself in."

"Why would she do that?" Amanda puzzles aloud with a frown.

"Because Buffy told her to," Dawn explains.

Her frown deepens at that. It didn't make any sense to her. If Faith is evil and Buffy is good, why would Faith do what Buffy told her. Unless Buffy had some kind of hold on Faith.

"Can I ask you a question?"

The sound of Dawn's voice breaks her out of her inner musing. "What is it?"

"Hey," Xander voice burst into the conversation as the basement door opens. "Can you please stop?" He continues taking a few steps into the kitchen. "I don't want to hear about what sex with Spike is like. Don't want to know about any manly hardness," he finishes in exasperation as Buffy emerges through the doorway. An almost too bright smile splitting her face.

Amanda focuses for a brief second then relaxes as she feels Xander's life force but nothing from Mary. It's the only way she and Duncan have of distinguishing the two blondes. She didn't tell Buffy all of their little secrets, which still surprises her considering just how intimidating Buffy had been. She was very good at dragging answers out of her without giving up any information herself. The girl just has this air, this presence, and a way of getting what she wants, and if she doesn't get it, of hurting those that deny her.

She is still more than a little skeptical of the information Dawn just gave her. It isn't that she doesn't believe the girl, she just thinks that it's more likely that Dawn had just been exaggerating, making her sister sound lager than life.

"Then we'll have to talk about your money instead," the blonde android announces blithely. "Anya says those are your and hers favorite topics. Sex and money. That you discuss them all the time," she adds as she follows Xander for a couple of steps. Seeing Amanda and Dawn she stops, her already too large smile increasing even more. "Hello Amanda, my newly acquired friend." Then without pause she ruffles Dawn's hair affectionately causing the young teen to scrunch away. "What is that extra sweet, cloying fragrance?" She inquires just before inhaling deeply.

Xander shakes his head. There is definitely a distinctive odor emanating throughout the kitchen, and he has a fairly good idea what the cause of the smell is. Needing to get away from the sickeningly pungent aroma he makes a beeline, taking three quick steps, toward the back door and the open air porch beyond.

"Were you trying to bake something," the machine asks Dawn.

The young girl continues to stare at her sister's mechanical double. After a few moments she lets out a slight breath. "I was trying to make pancakes . . . Like mom use to. For Logan. Only they're nothing but a burnt pile of smelly goo."

"I can make them for you," she offers.

"You can?" Dawn asks doubtfully. A little frown creases her lips.

The android nods her head, a quick little up and down bob. "Warren programmed me with every conceivable skill necessary to be a perfect girlfriend including all things culinary. Although with Spike being a vampire I'm not really sure why?" She questions with a frown.

Amanda quirks an expressive eyebrow at Mary's choice of wording. At the implications behind them. Unless she was speaking in some kind of deep metaphoric way - which Amanda didn't really see the blonde as being that deep - Mary had said she'd been programmed, like a computer is programmed. She feels a chill run down her spine, it's like all those horrible robot monster movies that came out in fifties, sixties, seventies, and right on up through today had come to life.

If the young woman is actually some type of robot or android, or whatever they're called, it would explain why she has no life force. It could also explain her rather quirky behavior. Her constantly bright and bubbly personality. She has no choice in the matter. She couldn't act any other way then how she had been programmed.

In a normal week the thought . . . Thoughts, she is having, she would have laughed them off already as too ludicrous, or a flight of fancy, but considering the week she is having these ideas and implication don't seem quite so far fetched.

The next instant her face lights back up, a brilliant smile nearly splitting her face in half. "But I can, so I'll make the pancakes and clean everything up," she finishes with an authoritative jerk of her head. "You just sit back and watch."

Dawn doesn't really pay any attention to Amanda until the speculative, almost knowing look flashes over her features. "Okay," Dawn replies in a long breath. "You do that while I go check on Logan." Turning to Amanda she asks, "can you keep an eye on her? Make sure she doesn't go overboard?"

"What about that question of yours?" Amanda inquires.

Dawn shakes her head from side to side lightly. "It wasn't anything important," she replies just before rushing from the kitchen.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Giles eyes once again flicker toward McCleod without any conscious thought as the Scotsman leans against the hood of the dark-blue sedan he drove them over in. He just couldn't help it. The man is over four-hundred years old.

His dark hair is whipped about lazily in the mild breeze. For the most part he kept his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks pushing his long black duster back at the hips.

It is true that he has met older people, creatures, in the course of his life. They all however had been touched by dark powers. Changing them from then onward.

From what Duncan has told him, he was born immortal, that there had been no compacts, that he made, with beings of power. He is just what he is. A man who can't die.

Duncan can feel the Englishman's eyes on him again. He only felt a minor twinge of guilt about lying to him, but until he knew whether he could trust Rupert or not he didn't plan on telling everything. As far as he is concerned there are far too many mortals with that knowledge. Most of them he wouldn't turn his back on. Just about all of them belong to an organization called the Watchers.

He just didn't feel comfortable telling the man the one sure fired way to kill immortals. So he let the man think they couldn't be killed at all by mortals. Better by far to leave it at immortals will sometimes battle each other, with the winner taking the loser's power and leave out the portion of cutting their heads off.

At least until he knew whether he could trust the man or not, something made infinitely harder with the fact he is connected to an organization, a Watchers Council that takes a very dim view of anything not one hundred percent human. From what he could discern there isn't any connection between the two organizations. The group Rupert belongs to, if anything, makes the watchers he is use to dealing with seem positively pacifistic. The sole purpose - as far as he can tell - for the Watcher Council is eradicating sentient creatures that aren't human. That most of them are evil and out to destroy or subjugate the human race is only minor mollification in his mind.

Following Kurt's directions they had pulled into a deeply shadowed parking space less then a quarter mile from the hotel he and Logan are staying at. Duncan could empathize with the caution Kurt is taking, especially considering the young man's appearance. It is always better to be positive the person you're sharing your secrets with can be trusted. A lesson he had learnt the hard way.

For the young mutant it is quite possibly a matter of survival.

"This is quite an unusual situation I find myself in," Giles comments with a slight hitch in his voice. "Generally I don't find myself in a position to pick the brains of a man that has lived for centuries, to get a first hand account of the events that have transpired, that have shaped the world in which we live today. It's understandable really. With the fact that most of the creatures I'm forced to deal with are normally plotting the annihilation or subjugation of our race."

Duncan glaces at the older looking man. He had thought his experiences with Ahzriel had been an isolated incident, a supernatural entity with his sights set on world domination, but after his talk with Rupert it became apparent that Earth is under an almost constant threat. Beings and creatures. Entities that would love nothing more then bring about the ruination of human civilization.

Also, according to Rupert the reason why the world is still as it is, is because of a line of mystically empowered young women known collectively as slayers. Though there is only one at any given time except for now when there are two of them.

Letting out a slight breath Duncan looks straight ahead expecting to see Kurt, which he knows is unrealistic. To expect to see a man, that can literally appear out of thin air, walking down the street. Especially considering the person in question has blue skin, golden eyes, three finger hands, and a tail with a tip shaped like the head of a spade.

"There isn't anything special about them. One moment becomes the next and the next . . . " he shrugs, " . . . And before you know it, history has happened, but while it's going on its just life. It isn't until it's over that you realize something monumental took place. I've just happened to be lucky enough to have seen more than most."

Again Giles tries to place Duncan's accent. He knew the man is Scottish. With the last name McCleod he would have to be an imbecile not to know that. His accent however wasn't purely that of a man who grew up in the rugged highlands on the northern shores of the British Islands.

Occasionally he would catch a word, or even an entire phrase were several accents blend together slightly. It is so mangled it could come from anywhere or nowhere. He supposes, for a man that has lived for four centuries, losing your native accent is something of an occupational hazard.

"I'd imagine. Four hundred years," he stops shakes his head slightly. "And all of it must be extremely personal. A memory for every beat in time. Sorry if I come across as if you were nothing more than a text book. I've been told that I can be a tad bit insensitive at times."

Duncan glances back over at him. "There are worst things to be accused of then insensitivity," he remarks blandly.

"I'm fairly sure I've been accused of those as well," Giles returns with a slight chuckle.

With a pop of displaced air, and the sudden sulfurous aroma filling the area alerts them that Kurt has returned. Duncan turns smoothly toward the far, passenger side of the sedan where Kurt stands, a blanket-covered body slumped against his body.

Giles is a fraction of a second slower than Duncan, but because he's on the passenger side of the vehicle he manages to reach Kurt ahead of the Scotsman and gets his first sight of Spike. "Bloody Hell." His face is nothing more than a bleeding mass of bruises. Cuts and lacerations cover his chest. The only thing he has seen in his life that looks worse than Spike does at the moment was Logan a few hours ago.

He reaches out, grabbing the door handle and pulls it open. A small twinge of guilt twisting his stomach. It was only a few years ago that Spike managed to save him from a rather gruesome fate at the hands of his Grandsire. At the time Giles hadn't seen it at saving his life, only another, cruder form of torture.

It was only after the Initiative put the chip in Spike's head and he had been forced to seek aid from his former archenemy that he flaunted what he had done and demanded restitution be made. Naturally Giles hadn't believed the vampire at first, but Buffy had confirmed Spike's version of an uneasy alliance being forged between them at the time.

It didn't change anything. Not really. Spike is still a vampire, still part of the evil that must be expunged. He hasn't lost sight of that he can only hope that the others haven't as well. But while the vampire has the chip in his head he can be a powerful asset if handled properly. Spike's almost constant need for violence has been useful on several accessions.

Kurt slips into the back seat, his arms laced under Spike's arms and around his chest as he begins to pull the unconscious vampire into the car and places him in the back seat.

Duncan grabs hold of Spike's mud encrusted feet and picks them up unmindful of the fine clothes he is wearing. The vampire's injuries look to be serious, he would say life threatening except Spike is already dead and nothing is going to make him more dead.

In the decades he has spent on the battlefields of Europe, Asia, and America he has seen far worst injuries. That isn't what has his gut twisting in a knot at the moment.

He had glimpsed what Spike is capable of. A single punch sent Amanda sailing through the air before landing on the floor, dead, more then a dozen feet from where she had been standing. For something, someone to be able to do this to Spike...

It isn't something Duncan really wants to contemplate.

"Has he been conscious at all?" He asks as Kurt slides him to a stop.

Kurt shakes his blue head. "Teleporting takes a lot out of a person if they're not used to it and in good shape," he informs Duncan as he begins covering Spike with thick blankets. "At least I didn't have to worry about killing him while rescuing him," he finishes with a short bark of a laugh.

The front, driver side door opens and Giles slips in behind the wheel closing the door behind him. "How is he?" He inquires starting the car.

"Unconscious," Kurt replies as Duncan closes the back door and opens the front one and slide in.

Giles snorts to himself as he says "so for once we won't have to hear his insistent prattle."

"I heard that Rupert," Spike's muffled voice drifts up from under the layer of blankets. "And don't think I'm not going to tell the slayer. You bad mouthing the man..."

"Buffy has more important things to deal with Spike," Giles cuts in as his temper rises. "Fact is we should just dump you back off at your crypt and see how well you fare. Personally I'm more inclined to put a stake though your heart and call it a day."

Duncan leans in close, "That isn't going to happen Rupert," he whispers sharply.

"Duncan, I thought I recognized that nasty smelly pigs piss you call cologne," Spike mumbles. Just then he erupts in a fit of coughing.

Giles looks over at Duncan. "You sure about that?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The sun is still an hour or so short of its noon day peek, which means the master bedroom of sixteen-thirty Revello Drive is still bathed in deep shadows. Not that it matters much to the rooms one conscious occupant. The room has more than enough light for her to see by.

Buffy stands by the head of the bed, her eyes taking in the face of the man, Logan, her father, lying there. His chest rising and falling evenly, peacefully unlike a few hours ago. The wounds that had been covering his body are long since gone. Healed. No mark what-so-ever was left on his body. Not even the slightest scar remains.

She has always wondered who in the family she looks like because it wasn't her mother. Her height, she had always assumed come from Hank, since he is what everyone calls short at just over five and a half feet tall, and she isn't somebody people would ever mistake for being tall. Unless she is wearing six inch platform boots.

Still Logan is truly short only an inch or so taller then she is. He isn't Jonathan short, but it is a close thing. His face, cheeks, while not as lean as Spike's, doesn't have any excess flesh. Blankets cover the rest of Logan's small, but very tone, very defined body in an attempt to keep him warm and comfortable. It's as if there is something inside of him that won't allow anything to go to waste.

She gives her head a small shake. There are so many things about him that she doesn't know that she wants, needs to know. Everything really.

From why he wasn't there? What had happened? What he is like? Where he lives now? Was he going to try and take them back with him? Did he want to, or was he just going to vanish again leaving her and Dawn on their own?

Her lips quirk upwards remembering her sister's brief visit a few minutes ago. She was convinced that Amanda had somehow figured out the truth about her wacky identical cousin Mary. That she is in fact an android.

Buffy herself didn't see how that could be possible. None of her friends had realized the thing in her kitchen was a robot. So how could a stranger. Especially one who had never encountered anything supernatural before today. Even given the fact that she is older then Anya, if only by a century or so.

She shifts her gaze downward as a soft rustling sound floats up to her sensitive ears. A twitch, the tiniest of movements. His eyelids begin fluttering, twitching rapidly as his eyes shift looking everywhere from behind his closed lids. A curl of his lips. A grunt followed by another, even harsher one. His right hand shoots up violently as if swatting something away. His left arm lashes out as his eyes snap open, a growl surging up from deep in his chest.

It doesn't take Buffy more then a second to realize that Logan is still deep in the middle of some dream. A nightmare with how much he is thrashing about, snarling and growling, looking around the room but seeing things that aren't there instead of what is.

"Logan!" She shouts to no avail.

He shreds the sheets and blanket with barely any effort at all. Buffy lunges forward grabbing hold of his left wrist, and is surprised at how much effort it takes her to hold his arm still. His nostrils flare scenting the air, his eyes narrow as he focuses in on something beyond her. A sharp hiss fills her ears, as the dim light flashes brightly off the three pieces of steel that surge from between the knuckles of each hand.

"What the hell?" She gasps as her mind races trying to figure out what is going on. Somehow her father has pieces of steel embedded in his arm. Steel that doesn't look as if it had just gotten taken out of an acid bath. Six thin lengths of metal, three in each arm, all as long as his forearm and judging from the edge on them she would say they're honed to a razor fine edge.

**_Is this why he suddenly disappeared all those years ago_**? **_Is it why he can't remember anything_**? The questions flash through her mind in a haze.

Seeing his right arm start to move, a sweeping swipe coming straight at her head. She makes a quick decision and slaps him, hard, across the side of his face turning his head. A fraction of a second later her left hand grabs hold of his right wrist keeping it from reaching her.

"Wake up," she hisses loudly as she holds him in place.

He shakes his head harshly for a moment as the dream fades, slipping away from him and back into the dark recesses of his mind. His head snaps back around, anger flashing in his dark eyes for a moment, up until he sees Buffy gazing down at him with concern shining in her light hazel eyes. At that point anger instantly changes to fear.

His claws slide back into their housing with an angry hiss of steel sliding along steel. His expression shifts again as Buffy lets go of his wrist. "The hell do you think you were doing?" He growls at her harshly.

Buffy stiffens at his tone. Her concern for his well being swiftly being replaced by indignation at him wanting her to explain herself to him. "I was trying to keep you from hurting yourself," she replies stiffly.

"I could've killed you."

Buffy shakes her head. "No, you couldn't."

The confidence in her voice takes him back slightly. He inhales deeply, tasting the air as he takes her in, her stance, her scent. This isn't some type of false bravado. She actually believes she would be able to stop him.

"You were having a dream. A nightmare judging by how you were reacting to it," she explains letting a little of her anger go.

"A piece of the past," he mumbles sitting up. He doesn't bother checking under what's left of the sheets. The feel of the blankets, grating and scratching, against his bare flesh lets him know he is lacking clothes.

Buffy can sense the rage bubbling just below Logan's surface. In a soft whisper she asks, "what happened?"

He shakes his head again, a low growl rippling up from his chest. "I don't know," he answers. He lifts his left arm, the adamatium claws slowly surging forward. The silver metal glinting in the dim light. "Somebody captured me. Then a bunch of scientist took everything from me and left me with this. Tried to turn me into a killing machine as far as I've been able to piece together. All on Uncle Sam's orders."

He stops letting out a disgruntled breath. Discussing something he didn't remember. Something that happened twenty years ago isn't high on his priority. Especially with what's breathing down their necks.

He's rather surprised that they're still in Sunnydale. He figured Kurt would have gotten everyone moving already. Then again Buffy doesn't seem the type that is going to jump to fellow a stranger orders once she has her mind set. Even if they make sense. Then there's also the fact that Kurt might not even know where he is or that he had been injured in his confrontation with Glory. Of course even he doesn't know how badly he was hurt in that fight.

**_Obstinance must be a family trait_**, he thinks to himself as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, pulling the blanket with him to keep himself covered.

"You shouldn't try getting up yet," Buffy informs him stepping close so he can't get up. "You still need more rest to recup . . . "

"I'll rest later," he replies rising to his feet, wrapping the sheet around his waist, so he can look her in the eyes. "We need to get out of town. I don't know why Glory hasn't shown up yet, but we to be as far out of town as we possible can be."

Buffy gives her head a small shake. "Glory's big on overwhelming power, but she lacks follow through."

"One of these days she isn't," he responds. Taking a quick look around the room, he swivels his head back to her. "I don't suppose you'd have anything I could put on. I've never been found of the toga look."

She takes a step back sensing that Logan isn't about to back down on the get out of dodge idea anytime soon. It is something they should have done a long time ago, only there was always something holding them here. The only real question is where to go? She doubts that there is anywhere that they can go where Glory wouldn't be able to find them.

"Kurt's bringing you some clothes from your hotel," she answers after a moment. Another moment passes as Buffy chews on her bottom lip. She knows now isn't the time to be asking the questions she needs answered, but she also knows there might not ever be another time.

"What is it that you're expecting?" Her voice is soft, barely audible even to her own ears, but she had to ask the question. Judging by the way Logan stiffens, like a board pressed flat, she knows he heard her as well.

He shrugs, a slight, almost infinitesimal movement of his shoulders. "I don't know. The two of you are grown women, or near enough that you don't need me to raise you, tell you right from wrong. All that's been taken care of already."

"What is that suppose to mean?" She asks with a hard edge to her voice. "Are you staying or you just going to slip back into the shadows like you never existed?"

A low growl rumbles in his chest as he turns away from her. Two steps and he's looking out the bedroom window through the open blinds. "What do you want me to do?" He questions turning back part way. "You want me to stay or you want me to go? It's not like I have a whole lot of experience here, less then you." He turns back to the window looking out into the back yard. "Do I wish I could go back, change how things happened? Make it so I was the one to raise you?" He shakes his head sadly before turning all the way around so he can look her in the eyes, his own dark orbs holding back a lifetime full of discontent. "I can't, neither can you so we're all stuck with how things are. A bunch of strangers trying to get to know each other."

He turns back around to look out the window. Buffy can see the tension building in his shoulders. She can tell he has more that he wants to say, that he isn't going to say. At least he isn't going to say it right now.

"We don't want you to disappear any more than you want to, or would," she tells him taking a step closer. "You're right. We don't know each other but that doesn't mean we can't get to know each other. Just because we didn't start off as a family doesn't mean we can't become one."

"I don't want to force myself in where I'm not wanted." She shakes her head at the comment. Then quirks a smile as he turns around saying, "but I will if I have to."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Buffy seems a little preoccupied with Spike," Kurt informs Logan while peeking out through the blinds into the neighbor's yard.

Logan grunts sourly as he pulls up his jeans. "You should've let the vampire dust himself. If that's even what he was going to do," he adds skeptically.

Kurt gives his head a diminutive shake, but otherwise ignores the comment. Logan dislikes Spike on some primal level that he just doesn't understand, and he doubts if he ever will, or that Logan will ever change his mind. "Actually she seems more preoccupied with how much fuss the android is making over him."

He grunts again. Buffy had only spent another five minutes with him. Yet the tension had lessened after that. It had still been awkward, just not as awkward as it had been before. They didn't really talk about anything after that point.

After Buffy left Dawn had come in bearing a tray laden with pancakes. At first she was more than a little standoffish and just as polite and proper as any young lady. More than half an hour passed with the two of them exchanging trivial facts. It was more her talking while he ate. Filling him in on dates and events and important information.

Then Kurt had shown up with a new set of clothes for him and news of Spike's continued survival. Dawn heard the blonde vampire was still alive and downstairs and had taken off as if she had been shot out of a gun.

"Have you talked to Chuck yet?"

"I wanted to find out what the plan is before sending up an alarm," Kurt answers.

"The plan is we're getting the hell out of town," Logan replies sliding his feet into a pair of work boots. "As soon as I can get my hands on something big enough to haul all of us. Have Scott meet us with the jet in Vegas, or Francisco."

"Spike's going to need at least two days to heal," Kurt responds. Logan glares at him but he simply shrugs. "Buffy's orders not mine. Not the android's either."

Logan pulls on his shirt. "There's something else."

Kurt lets out a shallow breath. "Something I overheard Buffy and Giles discussing with Amanda and Duncan. Something about another slayer, one that's in prison . . . "

"If she's in prison it's because she wants to be there," Logan interjects.

"That's the same thing Buffy said," Kurt replies with a sharp nod. "That Faith went to prison voluntarily to make up for some crime she committed."

Logan nods saying "she might be useful. We'll see what Chuck has to say." He pulls open the bedroom door. "What about these immortals?"

Kurt rolls his shoulder's in a small shrug as he follows Logan out the door. "I knew Amanda for a few years when I was a boy. She's the one who began teaching me gymnastics and high wire acts. Duncan seems to be all right. Amanda trusts him anyway."

"And you trust Amanda," Logan comments looking back at Kurt as he takes the first step down the stairs. It isn't a question, just a statement of fact. He stops on the top step waiting for his friend's answer.

"She's about the first person who never treated me as a freak," he replies. His voice sounding harsher then he means it to. "Jena and Stephen were the other two. The three of us were the best of friends growing up, then when Amanda arrived she sort of became our surrogate mother. So yeah, you could say, I trust her."

"Just wanted to make sure," Logan replies starting back down the stairs. His only goal, which he is only mildly hopeful that can survive, is talking Buffy into leaving Spike behind. He stops on the bottom step, a strange unfamiliar scent sifting up toward him.

It is unfamiliar except for one thing. There is that same green, lime like fragrance that permeates Dawn's scent. Woven deep, into the core of who they are just like his youngest girl. Only it's less, like comparing a candle to the sun. It's so small, almost as insignificant as a single drop of water in the ocean, that if he hadn't encountered it so strongly in Dawn he might not have spotted it now.

His body tenses, like a coil being compressed, he takes the final step landing on the first floor right in front of the door. With a quick glance to the right, just to make sure his senses didn't miss anyone, his gaze shifts instantly to the left. To the tall, bottle blonde woman standing part way down the hall talking with a middle age Englishman and a thirty-year-old man with a sun darken complexion and dark hair.

Both the woman and man have that same lime odor to their scents. The man is heavier, stronger smelling then the woman's, but both, even combined are nothing in comparison to what is in the core of Dawn's scent.

His lips pull back slightly in a menacing sneer that doesn't have much effect on them since no one is looking at him. Somehow they're connected with what is happening to his daughter. He doesn't know how but he does know it.

He takes a step forward as Kurt steps around him. "Amanda, Duncan, Rupert," he starts off gathering their attention.

Duncan's eyes shift instantly from Kurt to the person standing at his side. His eyes widen slightly, a small fraction of an inch in recognition of the man he's only ever known as the ghost.

"This is Logan, a friend and fellow X-Man as well as Buffy's and Dawn's father," Kurt finishes with a small gesture toward Logan.

Amanda gasps slightly. Her mouth forming a perfect little O. Her eyes bulge as they widen. Recognition floods though her, heart racing, blood surging through her veins in waves. She has to fight to keep her breath from coming in, in short gulps . . .

"It's a pleasure for us to finally have a proper introduction," Giles begins congenially as he steps forward with his hand extended. He is trying to do his best to make the man feel welcomed, not an easy task when his dark eyes bore holes right through him.

Logan ignores Duncan focusing on Amanda as her vitals go crazy. Her gaze continues to stay fixated on him. She knows him, of that he's positive. From her reaction to his presence it's also fairly obvious she thought he should be dead and is more then surprised to see him here, alive and well.

Amanda's positive that she is seeing some kind of ghost, an apparition perhaps. With everything else she has seen the past few days she can't think of any reason why it couldn't be. It has been more then five hundred years, closer to six since she last saw the man standing in front of her. Normally that wouldn't be that great of surprise for her. At times centuries pass before she has the opportunity to renew acquaintances. They however are all like her. Immortal.

"Jacques De Leon," she gasps in a tiny voice.

Duncan glances at Amanda, surprised to see so much shock, amazement, sorrow, wonder, and more then a touch of anger in her face.

She had thought him dead long ago. He hadn't been immortal. Still, isn't - his life force is as strong today as it was back then - though she had never been sure if he knew about them or not. More then a few of his comments during their time together were ambiguous enough to infer knowledge.

Then there was the fact she had never, before or since, spent so long in one place and never had to face a challenge. She felt a fair number of immortals during that time, but not once did any of them seek her out. At the time she thought it was blind luck that none of them had found her.

She had never, not for one single moment, given it a thought, despite the fact that Leon had manhandled her, that he'd been driving off the headhunters. How could it? How would he know they were there? Or who they were?

Logan steps forward brushing past Kurt. "Who . . . "

"You son of a bitch," She growls taking a step toward him, knocking Giles aside in her anger. Her right hand, open palm, swinging around to slap him across the face. "Ten years and you . . . "

He moves with the speed of a striking cobra. Grabbing her hand, before it makes contact with his face, he swings her around slamming her into the wall. Two claws housed in his right hand, the outside ones, spring free. Steel rasping loudly in the otherwise silent air.

His fist shoots out, one claw sliding to each side of her neck. A small trickle of blood spills down her skin. His nostrils flare at the scent of fresh blood. A low growl rumbles from deep in his chest.

Amanda swallows gently trying to keep the razor sharp metal from cutting even deeper into her flesh. The gleam in Logan's eyes is hard, sharp, cutting like the steel around her throat, and without the slightest hint of recognition.

Duncan moves forward, but freezes as Logan's head shifts toward him, a low animalistic growl rumbling out of him. A savageness that simmers just below the surface.

"Logan," Kurt hisses hoarsely.

Amanda glances down, a bare shifting of her eyes, at the claws around her throat, a third claw beginning to emerge from between his middle two knuckles. Her eyes move back up, a sweet but slightly nervous playing at the corner of her lips. Logan can smell the anxiety rolling off her in waves. When she speaks though there isn't the slightest waver in her voice.

"Well, these are a rather recent addition."

"You know me?"

"You're joking right?" Another growl answers her question. "Not joking," she murmurs seriously. "You want to put these things away?" She requests pointing to the claws still grazing her skin. "This is going to take awhile." **_After all_**, she thinks to herself, **_it isn't like he didn't track me from Rome all over Southern Europe, into Istanbul, the Middle East, Nepal, across China, through India, and eventually into Japan_**.


	7. Chap 7: Red Sector A

**Chapter Seven : Red Sector A**

A heavy haze of blue smoke hangs in the thick rafters high over head in the nearly empty bar. The quite clatter of the clean up, as employees tidy up; putting chairs on top of tables, sweeping the floor, the clink glass as mugs, pitchers, and glasses of all shape and sizes are washed and put away. The soft chatter of conversation drones on throughout the process.

Underneath it all anguish filled strains saturate the air as Joe Dawson's pain, suffering, love, and life are transformed into some of the most stirring music many of the people present are ever likely to hear. He sits atop the large stage nestled against both the side and back interior walls.

More than once or twice everyone gets so caught up, so enraptured with the heartfelt music flowing from Joe that they tend stop what they're doing for brief periods of time. Nobody minds though even if it does mean it takes them a little longer to get done with their job. Most of them consider it a bonus for a job well done.

The bell over the door jingles as the heavy wood swings in easily letting a sliver of the early morning predawn light filter in.

"We're closed," Ryan; a young, well built, dark hair, dark eye white man informs the strangers. "Come back anytime this afternoon."

Methos glances at the broad shoulder mortal, a square jaw that puts him in mind of an anvil. He smiles, a condescending little grin, as he says, "it's okay. I'm an old friend of your boss," he finishes with a nod at Joe as the music comes to a stop.

"Adam," Joe calls out cheerfully as he takes in Methos' slightly haggard expression, the rumpled look of his clothes. Placing his guitar in its stand he grabs hold of his cane kept near his right elbow, and rises to his feet as quickly and gracefully as his plastic legs will allow. "What the hell brings you out at this time of the day?"

"Nice to see you too Joe," Methos responds to Joe's semi accusing tone. Still his mind flashes back nearly half an hour, the metallic ring of steel meeting steel, the angry hiss as razor sharp blades slide against each other. The thrill, the adrenaline rush, the surge of excitement that had flowed through his veins as he fought, and killed. The fear of not knowing if he would emerge victorious mixed with the certainty of knowing he would. "I'm going to go grab a beer. You want anything?" He asks already heading to the end of the bar.

Joe gives his head a small shake as he makes his way to the short flight of stairs. "Whatever you're having," he answers wondering what Methos is after. He knew that eventually the oldest man would tell him, he just didn't feel like wading through the normal rig-a-moral.

As everyone returns to what they had been doing, the buzz of normal conversation picks backs up, Methos twist the cap off one beer and then the other. Placing one on the counter he gives Joe a mock salute with the other before taking a large pull off it.

Joe picks up the dark bottle and takes a quick swig of the liquid filling it. Placing the bottle back down on the polished wood he encircles it with both hands lacing his fingers together. His eyes shift back up taking in the eternally young man. "What's on your mind old man?" He finally asks needing to break the prolonged silence.

He shrugs, a slight movement of his thin shoulders as he slips off his thick, black, knee length duster. "Can't I just drop by every now and then because I want to see a friendly face." Joe tilts his head to the side as his eyes widen fractionally in disbelieve. Unfazed by Joe's look, Methos picks up his beer and takes another smaller pull from it while reading his friend's expression. "Besides," he starts after lowering the bottle slightly, "this is the only place in town I can get a decent conversation. Unless you include those one-nine hundred numbers, but then again it's not really conversation that people are after when they call those is it? The psychic hot lines aren't bad either, it's rather amusing listening to them tell me about my life. Every now and then though you run across a real psychic, that can get extremely chilling in a hurry. Listening to someone else tell you about your life in stunningly accurrrete detail."

"There's a point to this?" Joe questions once Methos stops to take a breath.

Methos considers the question for a moment as he takes another quick draw from his bottle. He gives his head a short shake and says, "not really. I was just rattling on."

Joe nods, takes another swollow from his beer. "How about that weather we've been having lately?" He inquires then picks his bottle up and takes another pull.

Methos sighs slightly as his hand stops half way to his mouth then slowly lowers it back to the bar. "About fifteen years ago, while I was taking an extanded subatical from the council, giving everyone who knew me the chance to die off before I returned. Wouldn't do to have someone that knew me, recognize Adam Pearson."

"Anyway," Joe prompts.

"Well here I am minding my own business, more or less. Doing some little side projects I'd been meaning to get to for the last century or so when this incredibly beautiful woman approaches me. Light blonde hair, nearly bronze tan, piercing ice blue eyes. Like they could just see right into you, right through as if they strip away everything leaving you bare. She wanted something researched and heard I was the best." He shrugs adding, "it's the curse of knowing nearly every known language and having lived nearly as long as human civiization."

"Plus being so damn humble."

"Humility's overrated. Better by for to simply be the best and let everything else fall where it may." He picks up his beer, drains it and goes in search of another.

"So what did this mystery lady want you to research?" Joe asks as Methos hands him another beer.

He gives his head a light shake saying, "wasn't no mystry about who she was, is?" He gives another light shrug. "A very young Emma Frost."

Joe blinks at that bit of information as he swollows. "You're joking right. The head of Frost Industries went to you because she needed research done. She has an entire team… Hell probably a few hundred teams dedicated to research projects."

The oldest known man shrugs. "Maybe this was something she didn't want coming back to bite her in the ass." A speculative smile flitters over his face even lighting his eyes briefly as he considers something privately.

"What did she want?" Joe asks after several moments of silence.

This time it's Methos that blinks in surprise. "Sorry, cought in a moment there," he apollogizes semi seriously. "What did she want? Information, about some crippled professor, Charles Xavier, a theorist concerning human genetics and mutation. A real Gandhi, can't we all just get along, type. From what I recall he was just beginning the process of turning his family's mansion in upstate New York into some kind of private school for the gifted. Ask me it sounds more like a safe house, seen enough of them to recognize one when I see it, but I was never able to get close enough to tell. Place had a security set up that would give Amanda pause."

"Why would Emma Frost, one of the nations leading industrialist be intrested in Charles Xavier, perhaps the most out spoken person in the world, campaining for equel rights for mutants even though under the constitution all humans are gauranteed them?" Joe muses aloud.

Methos shrugs while he says, "probably because they're both mutants."

Joe stares at him with unblinking eyes as he tries to process the statement. "That can't be right," he murmurs.

"Think about it, Frost took the million dollar company her father started and withen two years turned it into a multi-national conglamerate that rivals Stark, Shaw, 3M, Gerber, Worthington, Colt, Microsoft. You give me a plausable explanation on how she did that. And nobody sticks their neck out for somebody else unless they're invested somehow. Then there was my last meeting with Frost, told me my secrets are safe with her so long as I keep what I know to myself."

"So," Joe replies with a shrug. "Everybody has secrets. Maybe you just let her get to you?"

"I thought of that," he admits. "Even believed it for all of five seconds or so. Right up untill I realized she called me Methos. Then when I want to give chase I found I couldn't move. Almost five minutes passed before I regained my mobility. It was like living in hell for five minutes. Could almost feel the seconds ticking away, waiting for a stray immortal to come along." He shudders slightly lifting his bottle to his lips.

There was no sense telling Joe about the other way he had of discovering if somebody is a mutant, is a powerful mutant anyway. It's a piece of knowledge no mortal has ever been privy to. The fact that immortals can sense humans, not how they know another immortal is close, just the life force. The life force of mutants is different, not a lot, but just enough to be able to diffrerentate between the two. It had taken him centuries of searching to recognize those minute differences between the two, but it was there and he had found it.

"Where's all this coming from?"

"I really didn't feel like talking about the weather. Everyone always wants to talk about the weather, especially when there's nothing else to talk about or the other topics are too difficult to discuss."

Joe shakes his head mumbling, "sometimes you're impossible to deal with."

He smiles, a crooked grin as he raises his bottle back up in another mock salute. "When's MaCleod suppose to be back."

"You haven't heard?" Joe asks a little surprised by that information. Normally Methos knew everything three days before it happened.

Methos' crooked smirk slides into a pensive frown without too much effort. "What haven't I heard?"

Joe takes a small pull from his bottle. Placing it back on the table he stares at it for a moment. "I don't think he's coming back, at least not in the immediate future."

"What?"

Joe nods at him. "It seems he found something in Sunnydale to keep him there."

"What?" He repeats in slightly more strangled voice.

"He bought an Art Gallery. I think it belonged to the woman whose funeral he attended."

"What?" He parrots one last time still not believing what he's hearing.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Thunder crashes as bolts of lightening light the sky nearly as bright as day for brief moments. Dark, thick clouds blot out the sun while rain pours down in heavy sheets making an almost solid wall that drives, everything or everyone insane enough to be out in it's fury to their knees as it turns the hard packed dirt streets of Alexandria to slick mud. Wind buffets everything, whipping shutters back and forth, making the spray of water even harder then it is without it.

"This is Egypt. It never rains in Egypt," Amanda murmurs despondently while pulling her white fur lined cloak tight around herself in futile attempt to keep dry as she tries to climb the slick streets as she attempts to find some suitable cover to wait out the deluge. Pulling her sword around a little she makes sure to keep it close at hand. Just in case there is someone insane enough, or stupid enough to be out in this weather.

Especially one man. She however doubts if even he is insane enough to be out in this. Nobody in their right mind would be out in weather like this. No matter the reason.

Amanda stops as she senses someone watching her. She spins around, her eyes searching the darkness. Lightening flashes, lighting sky. Thunder roars almost directly overhead. A second flash streaks across the sky followed quickly by a third and fourth streak across the suddenly bright skies. Thunder, loud enough to nearly drive her to her knees rumbles afterward.

The sudden, intense light robbing her of her night vision. Quickly she squeezes her eyes shut tight trying to regain what she lost in the bright moment of illumination.

With her eyes close Amanda thinks back the past several weeks to when she first realized someone had been following her.

_Three days after leaving the Vatican with her haul she first felt a presence watching her. To start she simply thought it is her imagination playing tricks on her._

_That lasted into the middle of the night when she woke up out of a trouble sleep. The dying ambers of her fire highlighting a small man covered in dark furs making him nearly indistinguishable from the night around him. She watches him, watches the shadow that is him as he studies her. She can just imagine the wolfish grin lining his face. _

_She watches him never taking her eyes off him as he stands there, motionless. Then he was gone. She hadn't taken her eyes off him hadn't blink, nothing he was simply gone. Like he had never been there._

Letting the week old recollection fade she opens her eyes allowing her gaze to sweep over the squat one and two story Buildings. There's nothing that she can see as darkness and shadows swallow everything more then half a dozen paces away, but she can feel him. Out there, watching her, just waiting to reach out of the darkness to touch her.

_She had seen him once, on the docks of Carthage. On one of the higher roofs near the docks she watches, she waits and she finally spots him coming off a two masted galley. Making his way through the densely packed quay he ignores the heavy crush of people as if they aren't there._

_Aside from that one night by the fire. She had never seen him before, never seen him clearly anyway, but there had been no doubt in her mind that it was him. He stood out from everyone else moving along the docks. Like a wolf lazing away his day amongst a flock of sheep._

_Even from a distance she can tell he's short. Shorter then her anyway. His clothing consisted of dark, fur line material. Much like a primitive that survives strictly off the land. He carries a thick limb bow in his left hand, a quiver full of arrows hang off his back. She could just make out the heft of a sword from under his heavy cloak. His dark hair hangs loose, a strong ocean wind whips it around like streamers. A heavy, but well kept beard and mustache covers the lower portion of his face._

_She expects him to ask questions about her. After all she only arrived the day before and made sure to make quite a scene. To be remembered just for him._

_Only when he stops it isn't to ask questions. He raises his head slightly, his nose flaring as he sniffs the wind. Then he kneels down running his fingers over the smooth paving stones and lifts them to his nose then tastes them._

_Amanda knows it's her imagination, but she almost believes that's the exact spot where her shoe came off and she had to sit down to put it back on. Rising quickly to his feet he follows the same line she took the night before._

_A sudden insight hits her like the greatest epiphany of all time as she wonders if that is how he is able to track her. If he could follow her by scent alone like some kind of blood hound. Then another thought hits her like a sludge hammer. She had wasted an entire day that she could have been using to put distance between the two of them just so she could catch a glimpse of him._

With her hand resting on her sword hilt she spin's in a loose circle, always moving forward towards her destination -- even though she doesn't have one yet -- and what she hopes is sanctuary. From the storm, from her pursuer.

As she comes full circle, facing the way she had originally been, she stops. Eyes going wide, heart hammering in her chest. He's there, standing in the middle of the wide road, his small body seeming to block off the entire street.

Lightening flashes again, she throws up her right hand taking a short step back. For a brief moment that last longer then it should, Amanda gets her first good look at him. His hair is plastered by the rain, hanging below his shoulder. Dark eyes, black as midnight, are like a wolf on the hunt as he studies her. Just like the night by the dying fire. His face is hard, angular and sharp as if it had been curved from granite. His beard and mustache gone, but heavy whiskers are already growing in to replace them. His frame is hidden by the bulky fur line clothing that he wears.

Amanda swallows knowing the time for running and hiding and dodging is over. Steeling herself she straightens, her hand reflexively tightening on her sword hilt as she settles into a relax fighting stance. In the darkness she thinks -- she imagines -- she can pick up an amused little smirk settle on his face. His stance doesn't alter in the slightest.

Amanda can't help but grin at his confidence. It's obvious that he thinks himself something special with a sword, and maybe he is by mortal standards, but there isn't a mortal alive who could match blades with an immortal. A few come close but that's all.

"You took something that doesn't belong to you girl. Puskin wants his crest back," he shouts his voice booming over the wind and the rain.

"And he sent you?" She chuckles with more then just a hint of amusement.

"You've been entertaining so far youngster." Amanda gawks at the term youngster. She's over six hundred years old, not that he knew that, and he barely looks older then her anyway. She wants to know where he gets off calling her young. "There's no need to make this personal. Just turn the crest over and you can get on with having yourself a long life."

Her sword seems to leap into her hand as she draws it in the blink of an eye. "You want it so bad, come and get it," she challenges him in the middle of the down pour on the mud slick road. The crest is the most valuable piece of everything she had taken exactly twice as valuable as the rest combined. Without it the venture was hardly worth the risk and she would barely be able to cover her expenses.

"If that's how you want it?" He says with a deep scowl at her as he starts forward, focusing on her to the exclusion of everything else, "just remember. When this is all over, I gave you the chance to walk away without all this here grief," he finishes having cut the distance between them in half. His powerful strides carry him to her at a rapid pace eating up the ground between them. His hands still nowhere near his sword and his composure completely unshaken.

It's unnerving to her how calm he is, like he has absolutely nothing to fear from her. As far as Amanda is concerned it is the ultimate form of arrogance. Just because she is a woman. She still has a sword in her hands and is accounted as good as any man. She's taken enough heads in her life to prove it. Not that he knows that.

Her smile broadens though it's more hostile then amused now. She would show him. She'd let his arrogance work to her advantage.

Setting herself in a standard on guard position, sword held low point dipping upwards aimed at his chest. As he comes within range she strikes with the speed of cobra taking a swift swipe at his head. Only she misses, her blade going high of it's mark as he easily ducks underneath her swing.

She tries again and again misses as he twists away from her . His grin broadens as she attacks again and again, each and every strike gaining in speed and intensity. "That's it," he taunts her. "Show me what you've got."

"Show you," she growls slamming the hilt into his face. She grins as he stumbles back, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose.

He looks up at her, a feral light gleaming in his eyes. He wipes the blood from his upper lip. Looking from the blood covering the back of his hand to her he smiles at her, a lecherous grin. "Now we're starting to get somewhere," he announces drawing his sword. "Now we can have ourselves some real fun."

Amanda frowns, swallowing hard as he comes at her. A quick thrust that Amanda just manages to slip followed by a sharp slash that misses slicing her open by a hairs breadth as she dodges out of the way. He continues attacking, his swings sharp, precise as they try to reach her flesh.

She deftly parries his next thrust and quickly takes the offensive forcing him back half a dozen paces as her blade comes closer and closer to his flesh. Determination sets in her face and she redoubles her efforts. Each attack is turned aside at the last possible moment giving her that much more reason to increase her pace.

Then in a heartbeat he's back on the attack, a smile on his lips as he forces her back, circling. She keeps him at bay with little effort, managing to launch her own strikes at him. Then the pace, the tempo increases several notches and she suddenly finds it's all she can do to keep his blade from reaching her.

Then it jumps up several more levels. In utter desperation Amanda defends herself. Moving faster then she ever has before, her blade barely managing to deflect his smooth attacks. She hasn't felt this clumsy since Rebecca first took her in and taught her to handle a sword more then six centuries ago.

Needing to take the initiative back. To regain control of the fight she attacks. Lunging forward she tries to reach him, he deftly parries the strike spinning around her, his elbow smashes into the back skull causing her to stumble forward, nearly sending her crashing to the ground.

With her left hand touching the ground. She just manages to keep her balance. Spinning back around to face him she keeps her sword leveled at him despite the heavy rain pounding at her.

"Don't tell me that's all you've got?" He shouts at her as lightening splits the sky.

Thunder crashes as Amanda rises back to her full height. "why don't you come and see what I've got left," she hisses at him.

"Why don't I?" He answers with a grin right before he charges at her. The slippery slope doing nothing to slow him down.

Amanda rushes at him unmindful of the rain, the mud, everything except for him. The two meet in a clash of steel striking steel as the two move , strike, punch, dodge, kick, parry, lunge. All faster then humanly possible. Always Amanda is pushed back as her adversary shows only one frame of mind. Attack. Nothing but all out attack.

Amanda slashes at him. He catches her sword on his blade swinging them up and over. He steps in his right elbow smashes into her face, she feels the sword slip from her fingers, sending her crashing to the ground, a spray of mud splashing up from where she crashes.

Before she can move sharp steel presses against her throat. She can feel a small slice to her skin. Opening her eyes she stares at the sharpen steel that leads to the man standing over her.

"Personally I'd rather not ruin my day by having to kill such an exquisite creature over a fancy piece jewelry," he says exerting just a little more force on her throat.

"I get your point," she murmurs softly.

He smirks down at her. "I was sure you would."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt listens to Amada, with one upswept ear, as she tells Logan of their first meeting over six hundred years ago, while he listens to the phone ring with his other. "Fourteen sixty-two," he mutters to himself in wonder.

He takes a step away from the dining room door as the portable phone pressed to his ear cuts off half way through it's second ring, "Charles Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters," Xavier's voice greets from three thousand miles away. "Charles Xavier speaking. How may I help you?"

It has been more than a full day since the last time either Logan or himself gave Xavier a call to check in. He felt a little guilty about that, Xavier had been gracious enough to offer him a room, a bed, more importantly a place that he could call home. Something he hasn't had since he and Stefan left the Kalderash to see the world. Not even when he joined the Munich Circus, they made him feel as if he belonged with them, a freak, amongst freaks, but it wasn't home.

"Good morning Professor," Kurt replies glancing back into the dining room. A thick cloud of white smoke hangs in the air as Logan continues to smoke his massive cigar. Duncan had long since opened a couple of windows.

Amanda is still weaving an incredibly intricate tail of her and Logan's first meeting. Such attention to detail and an amazing memory to recall even half of it, much less everything that she does.

Immortals who will live forever if they didn't kill each other off fighting for some prize. Something that may well decide the fate of all mankind, perhaps mutant kind as well. He gives his blue head a shake trying to make some sense of the undecipherable.

"Kurt." A sense of relief filling the powerful telepaths voice. "How are things going out there?"

"Not good Professor," Kurt responds with a shake of his head. "We had our first run in with Glory. She's everything Spike said she is."

"We'll be out immediately."

"Nein," Kurt blurts softly. He squeezes his eyes shut a little embarrassed by his reaction. Deciding there isn't any to do but to go on and explain he begins. "Buffy believes we have about a four day grace period. It seems whenever Glory expands a tremendous amount of energy nobody sees hide nor hair of her for at least four days."

"She goes into a retreat," Charles breathes out sensing an edge that they can use to their advantage. "Whatever her power it's finite and takes time to build back up."

Kurt nods saying, "that's we came up with as well."

"How powerful is she?" Charles asks.

Kurt lifts his head looking up at the plaster ceilings trying to estimate her strength. "Physically I don't think we'd stand much of a chance. She's invulnerable to physical force, even Logan's claws didn't do anything more than ruin her clothes." He pauses to take a breath as he remembers something else. "From everything we've been told the only one whose had any success against Glory has been Buffy…"

"Which might be psychosomatic condition." Xavier cuts in as he thinks aloud. "With Glory claiming to be a disposed god and Buffy being this embodiment of a mystical force for good."

Kurt nods again understanding the Professors meaning. "Then we might have found ourselves an advantage."

"How's that?"

He takes a slight breath. "There's another, slayer."

"Truly?"

"Ja."

"Does anyone know where she is?" Xavier asks the excitement clear in his normally composed voice.

"Ja," Kurt replies taking another breath. "Orange County Maximum Security Female Correctional Faculty."

Xavier exhales slightly at the information. It hadn't been what he was expecting but still it could be useful. "I'll check into it."

"Good," Kurt responds. "With two slayers, if we could find some way to wear her down, which might not be as hard as it sounds, we might be able to end this once and for all."

"I'd still rather have you avoid a confrontation as long as possible," Xavier informs him.

"So would I," Kurt admits. "I think even Logan would prefer that way."

He can almost hear the wonder in Charles voice as he says, "that's something I never thought I'd hear."

"Ja, it was very strange." Kurt admits. "Listening to Logan plan a retreat, going to either Los Vegas or San Francisco and having you meet us there."

"I'd stay away from San Francisco if at all possible."

"Why?" Kurt asks a confused expression clouding his face.

"You haven't been watching the news recently have you?"

"We've been a little busy."

"When you get the chance turn on MSNBC, I think you'll find it of some interest." A quiet note of command laces his voice. "Now about this Slayer in prison, do you know what her name is?"

"Faith," Kurt answers then pauses with a frown. "That's all anybody ever called her, Faith."

"I'll find out what I can and get back to you as soon as possible. Are there any other developments?"

"Some, but Logan should really be the one to tell you."

"About his past?"

"Ja. About his past."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike groans softly, almost silently as Buffy presses the flimsy yellow stripe straw between his lips. The fact that the straw is dipped into a large coffee cup full of blood and that he's in so much pain are all that keep him from venting his anger and frustration at his treatment.

Or mistreatment as he sees it.

After all he had kept his mouth shut about Dawn, _and the best the slayer could do is a cold mug of pigs blood fed to him by a damn robot that wants to get all lovey dovey with him_, he gripes internally ignoring the fact that he's the one that had her built and programmed the way she is in the first place.

Even during the worst that Glory could throw at him he had kept his mouth shout. But considering some of the kinks Dru had been into wasn't as bad as everyone seems to think, but he saw no need to mention that to Buffy and her lot.

He's very good at ignoring what he doesn't want to see. He always has been. Even when he was still alive.

Worst yet is the fact that Dawn is down here to watch his total and complete, utter humiliation. That she does it with a broad smile lighting her face does nothing to lighten his dark mood. If anything it just deepens his foul temperament.

Spike spit's the straw out of his mouth as he glares at the young girl. "Don't you have someplace else to be, like antagonizing a pack Treathal larvae."

Dawn's grin slips a little, but not much. She's really enjoying seeing Spike suffer, not from his injuries, but his embarrassment. It isn't often that she gets to see Spike deal with the consequences of his plans.

She shakes her head. "You had to have known everyone was going to find out," she says with a quick peak at the android double of her sister.

"Yeah well," Spike mutters to himself. "No one's ever really considered me the brightest bloke on the bloke."

"Nonsense," Buffy chimes in with her overly bright tone. "You're the most brilliant, most cunning, conniving evil mastermind to ever plot my destruction."

Dawn rolls her eyes at the android's back. While Spike glares at the machine he had had built. He shakes his head, then grimaces at the pain. After another brief glance at the android he shifts his gaze to Dawn. "Like I give a rat's bloody ass that everybody found out I had friggin machine built of your sister…"

"Spike," Dawn gasps her face going red. "I don't need to hear about… Whatever it is that the two of…" She shakes her head making a disgusting little face.

Buffy stares first at Dawn then Spike trying to figure out exactly what they're talking about. It seems to her that she should know, but her circuitry and processors simply can't fathom the meaning of their words. As quickly as she can she looks up every word, every definition, putting them together in every conceivable way, but still nothing makes sense. It's as if they're speaking in some type of code she isn't privy to.

"Hey! You're the one that brought it up," he gripes at her. "If you didn't want to know what I was doing with your sister then you should've kept your…" He stops talking seeing Dawn's face fall. He lets out a sigh as he realizes that once again he's let his quick temper and sharp tongue dig him into a crapper of a hole.

"Listen," he starts reaching for Dawn. A sharp pain shoots through his body causing him to grunt and recoil.

Buffy instantly move in. "Are you alright?" She questions intently.

"I'm bloody fine," he mutters pushing her hands away from him. "I don't need you pawing all over me."

The tray blonde frowns, a slight quiver to her lip and tear slipping down her check. "You don't love me anymore.?"

Spike gapes at her in shock, his eyes widening drastically. "I… I…" She looks at him expectantly, mouth open slightly.

"Yes he does," Dawn blurts. "He's a guy so he's not really good at expressing his feelings or telling people what he feels for them. You have to be patient with him."

"Oh," Buffy responds with a grin. "I can do that," she adds shoving the straw back into Spike's mouth eliciting another groan from him.

Dawn smiles again as Spike rolls his eyes heavenward. Deciding it's better to just shut his mouth and take his punishment like a man. Or a vampire as the case may be.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy impatiently paces across the Magic Box's upper tier. Her arms folded across her chest, chin resting on the webbing between thumb and forefinger while she chews on her bottom lip.

Xander, Tara, and Willow are pouring over research material. Tara working on the finishing touches of the memory reclamation spell. Xander, like Anya at the counter, is trying to find any mentions of immortals or humans with accelerated healing abilities in Giles' nearly inexhaustible supply of books, tomes, and volumes.

Willow haunches over her laptop searching the world wide web for any reference to watchers -- that have nothing to do slayers -- as well as the Weapon X program. It's slow going since neither organization is exactly listed in the yellow pages.

As usual Giles is scouring his thickest, oldest, most vile looking tomes. Books that are covered with arcane symbols and an air of power. Volumes so old that even Giles with his big brain and intricate knowledge of ancient and long dead languages needs to cross reference parts of the text.

She can't help but feel nervous. Almost trapped, like the world is closing in around her, with a vague sense of dread accompanying it.

"If you keep pacing like that you're going to wear a groove in the floor that we're going to have to have repaired," Anya announces in irritation as Buffy's pacing becomes too much for her. "Which is going to incur us to pay a bill, a bill that I'll send to you since it was your pacing that caused the damage in the first place," she finishes with a definitive nod. "Plus you're scaring away all the costumers," she adds as an after thought.

Xander looks up, feeling mildly ashamed of Anya's comments. "An," he starts off in a light reproving tone. "The shops already closed. You don't have any costumers for Buffy to frighten off."

"But if it was I would and she'd…" She makes an angry scowl.

"But you don't," Xander points out with a soft sigh.

Right now her father; Logan, or Luc, or Jacques Del Leon, or whatever his name actually is, is back at her house learning about a section of his past that took place six hundred years ago from a women who at least equals Anya in age.

"How come you're always taking her side?" She asks in a huff. "You haven't even been friends with her that long, no where near as long as Willow. In fact you've only known her a couple of years longer then me."

"I don't always take Buffy's side," Xander denies looking around the room at everyone, who are busy with projects of their own and paying him no mind what so ever.

"Even they know," Anya declares with a broad sweeping gesture. "They're just to polite to say anything."

Giles lets out an exacerbated breath as he looks up from his ancient tome. With an unwavering glare at the two of them he says, "if you two wouldn't mind overly much. We have far too much work still to be done for the two of you to be bickering so."

She should be there, with him. Instead she's here trying to figure out to keep him and everyone else out of harms way. Out of Glory's way before she makes them -- Logan, Kurt, Amanda, and Duncan, not to mention all the other people they're going to pull in -- a target as well. Just as she's done with the rest of her friends.

"The thing I'm going to be really, really, really happy about," Xander begins as he flips to the next page in the in the book he's reading. "For the first time we're going to be facing one of these end of the world type things and it's not just going to be us. We've got a pair of immortals. Two mutants, one that just might be…"

"We're leaving," Buffy announces suddenly cutting Xander off.

"We know. Two days after…" Willow begins but stops as Buffy shakes her head.

"Before," the blonde announces. She takes a deep breath looking around at all of her friends. "If I thought, even for the smallest fraction of an instant that Glory wouldn't come after you guys without me and Dawn here I'd take her this very instant and run as far as fast as I could." She gives her head a small, sad, nearly defeated shake. "But I can't. Glory knows how much you guys mean to me so the only way I can protect everyone is to keep you guys close to me. She's only seen Kurt and Logan once, never even laid eyes on Duncan or Amanda let alone any of the X-Men and I plan on keeping it that…"

"Whoa. Wait a minute." Xander starts standing up from his seat. "You're just planning on turning down all this high powered help?"

Buffy steps down onto the lower level, her gaze as hard as he has ever seen before. "They don't know what they're dealing with. Glory isn't some mutant that can be locked up once she's defeated. If she can be defeated. She's just going to keep coming, and coming, and coming until she gets what she wants."

"But it's okay for us to face that?" Anya demands.

"I can protect you," Buffy declares honestly.

"And they're more then capable of protecting themselves," Anya shoots back. "Duncan and Amanda are both immortal…"

"Yeah and just think about what'll happen to them if Glory finds that out? You saw what she did to Spike. Give her somebody that isn't going to stay dead…" She shudders as quick images of gruesome torture flick through her mind. Dropping her head a little she takes a light breath before raising it back up to stare at everyone. "Right now Kurt is talking to this Xavier, Professor person. By tomorrow they're going to find out Faith's been a model prisoner…"

"How do you know that?" Giles asks with a moderate curiosity coloring his voice.

Buffy looks over at him, shrugs, a slight roll of her shoulder. "Angel's been keeping tabs on her and sending me updates. So far she's been a model prisoner."

Xander groans out loud as Willow shakes her head. "Thanks for keeping us in the loop," he mutters.

"It's not like I asked…" She growls out before stopping herself. She gives her head a shake saying, "that's beside the point. All that matters is that Duncan and Logan are going to be going to pick up Faith leaving just Kurt and Amanda to deal with. Now I could hit them over the head, but I'd like to be a little more subtle."

"If you're going to do this then you should probably just slip them a Mickey," Giles suggest.

A puzzled expression creases Willow's face as she turns her head towards Giles. "Why would we want to take them to Disney Land?"

The watcher groans lightly before slipping his glasses off to give them a thorough cleanly that they don't need. "I believe he meant drugging them by slipping something in their drinks that will render them unconscious," Anya supplies with a smug expression.

"I knew that," Xander chirps happily.

Buffy ignores the byplay. Instead she directs her attention towards Giles. "Do you know something that'll knock them out, keep them out for six hours or so that isn't going to hurt them?"

"Several actually," Giles answers rubbing at his temples. Putting his glasses back on he turns his attention back to Buffy. "You still need someplace to hide them. Unless you were just planning on leaving them at your house?"

"The point is to keep them safe from Glory," Buffy mutters. "I was planning on leaving them at the Gallery, plus leaving Spike's little sex toy behind to protect them."

Giles nods thoughtfully. "It seems you've put a lot of thought into this."

She shrugs at the comment not sure if it was meant as a complement or not. Not really caring either way. "I just feel like there's something I'm missing, something that'll make it that much harder for glory to find them if she decides to look." She admits quietly, almost guiltily.

"What about a cloaking spell?" Willow questions then pauses thoughtfully before adding, "well not really cloaking but sort of making them less… Noteworthy to people seeing them. Sort of like with Marcie, but without that whole invisibility thing."

"You can do that?" Buffy questions in amazement.

"It's done," Tara announces excitedly. Her face beaming brilliantly, a quiet sheen lighting her eyes. "The memory reclamation spell. I've finished it." She catches Buffy's gaze, "whenever you want we can do the spell."

Buffy nods, a sense of anticipation filling her. "Tonight. We'll do it tonight." Then in a softer voice she adds, "I can leave him that much at least."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A cooling breeze blows in off the warm waters of the deep inlet. Boats and ships of nearly every conceivable size, shape, and description dot the harbor. Single masted as well as double, triple masted deep sea galleys anchored off shore and shallow drafted coast huggers. Amanda thought if seen from a great height that they would look like insects moving to and fro without any noticeable pattern.

Throngs of people line the open air market, the dull roar made by all of them clamoring for the objects of their desire at the same time is nearly deafening. Just like with their European counterparts Amanda can't help but wonder how the attendants can get the orders right, or if they get them wrong and nobody notices or says anything.

Most are similar to one another, all having the same dark, black or nearly black hair. The same sun dark skin, slim nose and mouth, dark eyes. Most wear the same drab gray or black or white clothing with wide sleeves and cuffs in both the arms and legs. A few wear similar style clothes but made from a finer cut of cloth.

Amanda however stands out like a stork among pond full of ducks. Not just because she stands almost half a foot above nearly everyone else's head, but because her style of dress is as foreign as the sword on her hip. Her look is the very image of the swashbuckling adventurer from Europe; black boots with turned down tops, cream colored pants, white shirt, a rose colored jacket, a light cloak, a wide brim white hat, and a saber slung low on her hip.

She carouses the shops and stalls with a keen eye and a quick razor sharp tongue as she haggles over prices of the things she requires. Like the clothes she needs to blend into Oriental society. She ignores the shouts, the jostling -- while keeping a sharp watch on her coin -- the grind, and the pressure as she makes her way along the street.

Turning she stops dead in her tracks as the last person she thought, expects, or wants to see in the world stands not more then five paces in front of her. No taller, in a few cases shorter, then the people sweeping past him, giving him a good foot of space.

In the light of day, from this distance, she gets her first really good look at the man that thoroughly trounced her, just shy of three years ago, in the mud slick streets of Alexandria during one of the worst storms she's lived through. Dark eyes, black as coal, bore into her. A hard face, all sharp angles and planes covered with a thick stubble. Dark hair sways side to side in the soft breeze. Just like all that time ago he's covered, head to toe, in dark fur covered hides.

His unstrung bow is slung horizontally across his back along with his quiver full of arrows. A heavy bladed sword hangs at his waist, a long, thick bladed dagger -- nearly the size of short sword -- balances his belt. "Shanghai's not the place to be practicing your trade," he starts off without preamble. His eyes graze over her body, a wolfish grin slipping across his lips. "They don't take kindly to that sort of activity in these parts."

Her glare is enough to stop most people in their tracks, or at least give them reason to pause. It didn't even seem to faze this man standing in front of her as he steps close. "Puskin not satisfied with getting his crest back. Did he send you back to take something else. My right hand maybe?"

"Your head actually," he answers bluntly in a cold, hard voice. A shiver runs up Amanda's spine at the deathly quality of his voice, but doesn't react. He smiles, an arrogant smirk as if he knows exactly what she's feeling. "I declined. Couldn't see much point in separating such a fine head from an exquisite body. It'd be such a waste."

Amanda's glare hardens as he speaks. It doesn't do any good. Taking a quick breath she tries to calm herself. "I hope you aren't expecting me to be grateful?" She mutters with a hiss. With one last cold glare at him she turns on her heel and begins striding away. Or that is what her intent had been, only the thick crowd of people stop her. With a whispered curse she begins forcing her way through the throng.

Behind her back she can practically feel his smile glazing her back. She knows he's walking behind her when she feels the crowd around her loosen slightly. "If I wanted anything from you, I'd take it." His voice nothing more then a low growl in her ear.

Amanda spins back around on him forcing him to take a step back. She looms over him, but after the initial backward step he doesn't budge. "If you think, for even one single moment that you're man enough to take something, anything that's mine without a fight you're in for the surprise of your life, you short, mangy, dog faced… Mongrel."

"Jacques Del Leon," he replies calmly.

Amanda blinks as she mutters, "what?" That hadn't been a response she had been expecting.

He grins wolfishly at her. "Only my oldest friends and most despised enemies have the right to insult me. To my face anyway," he adds as an after thought. "Since you're neither you'll just have to use my name."

"Just why would I do that?" She questions, her annoyance clear in her voice.

"Because we're going to be spending a lot of time together," he answers lazily.

Her eyes narrow on him. Partly in amusement, partly in astonishment she murmurs, "we are?"

A mischievous glint lights his eyes as he nods saying in affirmation, "we are."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Professor Charles Xavier lets out a deep sigh as he tosses the file he has been perusing quite carefully onto his desk with a morbid sense of failure. A feeling he is becoming all to familiar with of late. The detailed file on one Faith Cambell provides him with almost no useful information. While it gives him a complete and thoroughly comprehensive history on the aforementioned young woman it lacks any kind of depth.

Rubbing at his right temple lightly he uses the toggle to maneuver his chair around so he can gaze out his office's large bay window. At the finely manicured grounds of his century old family home. Living within these hallowed halls -- isolated and insulated from the world beyond -- sometimes it is easy to forget about the harsh realities that exist beyond its boundaries.

Stapling his fingers, thumbs tucked in under his chin while his forefingers rest against the tip of his nose, his mind works its way through the thick file sitting on his desk.

Faith's file. While it holds all the facts and data and pertinent information that is available on her it doesn't even begin to tell him what he needs to know to make an informed decision on the matter at hand. It does an excellent job at painting an overall portrait to evaluate, even though it's a hazy drawing lacking the vividness of a true artist.

A turbulent childhood is a kind way to describe Faith's early years, never mind her first few days of life. Born a full month and a half premature and addicted to her mother's drug of choice, heroine.

Her father is a non-entity. Her mother, a heroine addict that died July 15, 1984 from a prolong bout of pneumonia. A sickness that was a direct result of her having acquired the HIV virus years earlier.

The doctors had performed a cesarean section earlier that day in the hopes of saving the mother at the expense of the child, only their plan backfired. The child lived while the mother was dead within hours.

Faith, as one of the nurses named her, never showed any sign of the disease. Never tested positive for the virus. A medical impossibility as far as any doctor in the field has ever been concerned. Something that should be impossible. Something that should have caused the medical community to clamor after her like she was the goose that laid golden eggs.

Only nobody ever found out.

A small, but extremely powerful holding company based in England obliterated nearly all record of Clara Cambell. The only reason the facts were in the file on his desk is because of their source deep inside the U.S. State department.

Of nearly as much interest is the fact that Faith never showed any signs of drug withdrawal.

If that is what a girl who just has the potential of becoming a slayer is capable of it is hardly any wonder that the same British holding company went to such great lengths trying to take possession of the orphaned Faith. Only her Grandfather, Jacob Cambell, had managed to hold them at bay. No mean feat considering the financial and political strings they seemed more then capable of pulling.

Charles still couldn't make up his mind on whether that was the best course of action for Faith. He couldn't place his finger on why, but he just couldn't get past the feeling that something tragic, something even more tragic, happened during her life.

Despite the phenomenally high test scores she was at best a sporadic student. A's and B's one day. D's and F's the next with practically no middle ground. Such ups and downs are indicative of a troubled home life. As is most often the case nobody noticed.

Then one day, the twentieth of May nineteen ninety-eight she disappeared. Simply vanished as if she never existed. She didn't turn back up for a year. When she did it was in an intensive care ward at Sunnydale General Hospital with multiple injuries; blunt head trauma and a sever knife wound to her abdomen were the worst.

An eight month coma followed. After waking up she simply walked out of the hospital, assaulting a woman and stealing her clothes. Over the next few days there were several run-ins with the police, including a capture and subsequent escape.

After that she vanished again, but turned up two weeks later. Only this time when she resurfaced it was in a Los Angeles police station confessing to a plethora of varying crimes ranging from simple assault, breaking and entering to torture and multiple homicides.

The question why continues to dog his mind. Neither guilt or remorse fit with her psychological profile. He lets out another long exhalation. He's finding it very frustrating trying to figure out what is going on by reading between the lines. Especially when half the story is missing.

The girl Faith had attacked at the hospital hadn't pressed charges for whatever reason, and neither had the man at the bus station -- a known pimp and drug dealer. The man she claims to have tortured denied the incident entirely despite a face of evidence that says otherwise. Aside from her confession there isn't a single scrape of evidence against her. A confession that technically isn't worth the paper it's printed on.

His head swivels towards the dark, red wood door. Knowing how uncomfortable it made most people when he bade them to enter before they make their presence known he holds his tongue until he hears Ororo's gentle tap. "Come," he says with authority as he turns his chair back around to face the door.

The heavy door swings open smoothly, silently on its well oiled hinges. Ororo, the white hair dark skin beauty whose mutant powers give her an unimaginable control over the weather -- from creating micro blizzards in an enclosed room to touching down upwards of fifty class five twisters in under a minute -- walks in through the opening created.

"You wished to see me Professor?" Ororo inquires with a tiny nervous hesitation.

Charles nods, an almost imperceptible movement as he says, "it's nearly time for finals. With Jean's passing and Scott taking an indefinite leave of absence that leaves just you and I to handle the rotation. I thought it would be prudent for us to begin our preparations earlier then we would normally."

"It shouldn't be too difficult. Scott left a detailed syllabus for all of his classes and Jean…" She stops speaking, her gaze shifting over Charles head to the window and he graying sky beyond. Schooling her features Ororo forces herself, mind and body, back to a place of utter stillness. "Jean hated waiting to the last moment to do anything. She had to have everything done as soon as possible. The sooner the better as far as she has always been concerned." The corner of her lips to up slightly, but nowhere near enough to touch her eyes. "She had her exams prepared nearly a week before Striker's assault."

Charles' own smile is more then a touch sad. "As if she somehow knew?" He muses in melancholy softness. Ororo's gaze shifts back to Xavier's dark tilted eyes, a challenging glint in her own. He shakes his head catching a quick flash of her temper. "That…" He stops glancing down at the floor for a moment before lifting his eyes back up to her.

She closes her own eyes for a brief second and lets out a short breath. Reopening her eyes she admits in a soft voice, "that was very nearly my first thought as well."

Xavier nods, sighing softly as he shifts his line of sight so his gaze is taking in several pictures along the mantle. Old pictures of his first students, not just Ororo, Jean, and Scott but others as well. The unequivocally brilliant Henry -- or as everyone calls him Hank -- McCoy. Warren Worthington the Third, heir to one of America's largest privately owned corporations.

There are other pictures lining the mantle, most are newer photos of students that have called this venerable old mansion home. A few however are older, black and whites, taken long ago when times were infinitely simpler then they are now. When it was far easier to tell the good guys from the bad. From just after the Korean war while he had been trekking his way across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Middle East.

After several long moments Charles turns back to Ororo. "There's another matter of some importance. As you are no doubt aware Peter has been expressing a great deal interest in staying on after graduation. Joining both the faculty and the team."

Ororo nods her head thoughtfully with an amused smile playing across her lips. "for as long as I've known Peter he's expressed a desire to become a member of the X-Men."

Charles smiles lightly at Ororo's remembrance. "I'd like you to begin getting Peter acclimated to an X-Man's schedule."

"I'm sure Marie and Bobby will enjoy the company," she responds with a light playful smirk.

Xavier's grin matches her as he agrees with her saying, "I'm sure they will."

For a brief moment peace and tranquility settles over Charles Xavier's private office. A calm stillness that seldom pervades any room in this old mansion. A stillness, a tranquility, and peace that is simply destined to be ruined.

The phone rings, a sharp double beep. Four eyes latch onto the phone as it rings a second time. A different type of stillness fills the room. A dread laced silence that hangs in the air, only broken by the phone ringing for the third time.

Ororo steps to her left grabbing the handset, placing it to her ear in one smooth motion. "Xavier's School for The Gifted. Ororo Munroe speaking. How may I direct your call? Yes, he's right here. One moment please." She takes the phone away from her ear, a confused expression marring her features as she says, "it's the American embassy. In Moscow."

Xavier's face sombers drastically as he takes the handset from Ororo. Placing it against the side of his face he says, "Charles Xavier. To whom am I speaking? Yes Mr. Reynold, we do have a student by that name attending… Yes, that is the name of the town he grew up in. The rest of his family. Mother, Father, a younger sister as well as Aunts, Uncles, and cousins to numerous to list, still live in town. A farming community several miles outside of the town proper," he finishes correcting himself.

Over the next several minutes Charles Xavier is silent as he listens to Mr. Reynold and the situation he has to deal with. His face pales, draining of color with each passing second. Each word that he hears. "Everyone?" He asks, his voice taking on a ghostly, a haggard quality. A spark lights his eyes as a bit of life enters his face. "There is… Of course. Whatever's necessary… Whatever arrangements need to be made to expedite the process. I wish it was better news as well Mr. Reynold, but at least there's a little silver lining this otherwise bleak cloud. Thank you. My lawyers will be in touch shortly."

Taking the phone from his ear, he hangs up. Catching Ororo's questioning gaze, "a moment," he inquires speaking softly. Closing his eyes he focuses his mind, quickly finding the young man he's looking for. _Peter, would you come to my office please_? He request telepathically.

He sighs softly opening his eyes. "Bad news?" Ororo murmur.

A sardonic laugh escapes his lips as he says, "lately there doesn't seem to be any other kind." Lifting his hands Charles rubs his temples in an attempt to soothe away the headache he feels building. "Peter's home Ulst, a small town, under a thousand people, mostly farmers, on the eastern edge of Siberia. Sometime last week, the authorities aren't sure when. The entire population vanished."

Ororo's eyes go wide as a shock spawned, "how?" burst from between he lips.

Charles gives a small shake of his head saying, "no one knows."

"The entire town? A thousand people is no small thing to make vanish?"

"Not quite everyone," Xavier interrupts knowing what Ororo is going to say and knowing she is right. It would take someone of incredible power to accomplish such a feat. "Subsequent searches revealed a young girl that had been hiding in the town. Peter's sister, Illyana."

"Do you..?"

Charles shakes his head as he says, "I won't know until I've had a chance to examine her first hand. Normally a mutants power don't manifest until early adolescents with stress being the key factor. Illyana doesn't turn six for another seven weeks, but still it is possible for her nascent powers, whatever they are, to have emerged if the event was traumatic enough."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The multi colored; blue, red, yellow, green, and purple starburst pattern super-ball hits the concrete floor exactly halfway between the thick steel bars. It bounces off the floor with a dull thwack, hits the bar halfway up, bounces again when it hits the ceiling dead center and bounces back to the hand that had originally set its course less then a quarter of a second ago.

Faith blows out a short, despondent breath as she sends the super-ball back on its way. It bounces around the cell in a blur before landing back in her hand. Again she whips it out in what would seem a random direction and again it bounces around the cell only to wind up in Faith's strong hand once more.

She smiles sardonically.

It's all part of the slayer package she loves so much. Along with the speed, the strength, the accelerated healing, prophetic dreams, enhanced senses, and a few other nifty abilities. There's also this instinctive skill with angles and trajectories. She could literally bounce the ball of thirty-two different walls and have it land back in the palm of her hand. For all Faith knew it could be a thousand walls, surfaces, anything at all and she's fairly certain it would always return to her hand.

Like with most things in her life she has know idea how it works, just that it does.

"Faith!" A rough voice calls out suddenly. Not for the first time Faith wonders if Bimm swallowed a gallon of battery acid to get that extra gravelly, rock crushing quality in his voice.

"Hey Bimm," Faith answers softly. At least it's sudden to everyone who isn't a slayer. Faith however heard him coming at the far end of the cell block when he passed through the security check point. She had made a point of memorizing everyone's walk when she first arrived here months ago. She fond it's a good way of freaking people out. Knowing whose there before they make their presence known.

Not that it was all that hard to tell a guard's footsteps from a prisoner's. Hard sole footwear for the guards and soft shoes that felt like they were made out of paper for the prisoners. Have to give the edge to the guards. Whatever that might be.

Not that Faith had to worry about the guards or the prisoners. Most everyone learnt early on that Faith existed on an entirely different level then the rest of the prison. It took nearly six weeks of constant beatings by the more then enthusiastic guards for everyone to figure that out. Beatings meant to teach her exactly where her place is. Beatings that lasted until their arms felt like they were going to fall off. Enthusiastic until they learnt they could beat her from sun-up till sun down and barely leave a mark on her.

When they actually managed that much the marks were gone by morning.

It took someone, or something supernatural to really make a lasting impression on her. On any slayer for that matter. Vampires, demons, another slayer. Normal humans just couldn't get enough umph behind their punches, kicks, whatever.

Faith hops down off her bunk. Turning to look at large black man crowding her cell's doorway. She figures most people would be intimidated by his size, his bulk, his body builderesque physique.

She, however, isn't most people. Instead of intimidated Faith can feel herself becoming excited; Her blood pumping faster. Her breathing coming in deeper, quicker breathes as her body gets everything it can from each inhalation. Her mind becomes clearer, sharper as her body gears up for a fight.

A fight she's not about to let happen. Other inmates she'd put them in their place in a fast heartbeat. But as long as the guards weren't stepping way out line she let them be.

"Warden wants to see you," he announces in the same hard voice.

Faith's eyes widen slightly in surprise. The Warden a short, wiry man with a pencil thin mustache and a thin receding hair line by the name Ramin Liddons, didn't just summon people to his office. At least not in all the time she's been here. "Why?" She asks defensively.

Bimm gives the impression of shrugging without really moving. "He said to bring you to his office so that's what I'm going to do." His voice as harsh as ever. He steps back out of her way and gestures for her to step out as he says, "come along. No need to keep the man waiting."

Faith sighs as she steps out of her cell. Without thinking about it she slips her super-ball into her pocket.

She didn't bother to wait and see if Bimm falls in behind her. She didn't need to, his footsteps are loud in her ears as she strides down the gray oppressive corridors.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Half a dozen checkpoints and nearly fifteen minutes later Faith finds herself waiting outside a maple colored door that stands slightly ajar. Bimm applying a light pressure to her shoulder to hold at bay while Ms. Appleton, Liddons' assistant, announces her. Faith could listen in on the conversation, but she didn't. She didn't see the point. She was finding the veneer paneling far too interesting to divert any of her attention away from it's study.

"Mr. Liddons will see you now," the overly perky raven hair brunette announces with far too much good cheer for Faith's liking. "Alone," she adds as Bimm begins to follow her in.

Faith glances over her shoulder at the stony face guard. With a small frown she steps forward pushing the door open.

Blinking once she takes the room in with a single sweeping glance; bright, sunny, cheerful. A complete contrast to the feelings of gloom and doom the rest of prison invokes.

"Come in, come in," a clear, well educated voice says from within the room.

Faith's eyes sweep back over to the spot the voice originated from. Ramon Liddons stands with his back towards her, looking out the large bay window. He's nothing but a dark shadow silhouetted by light.

It isn't really the pose she would expect a warden of a maximum security prison to take while waiting for a convicted murderess. "Close the door will you?" He request politely.

With an indifferent shrug she kicks the door close with her boot heel. Faith got the serious impression that Liddons never spent a single day in law enforcement before taking this job.

"And have a seat," he finishes pleasantly as he turns around to face her for the first time. His melodic voice seeming to worm its way into her brain.

With a shrug she crosses the intervening space and sits down on the thinly padded low-back wooden chair. He gives her a veiled smile. To her eyes it looks more like a grimace.

There is something about the man that sends off little warning bells inside her head. That there's something not quite normal about him. At the same the time it isn't like her slayer sense is going off the walls telling her she's in the room with some kind of demon.

"How old are you Faith?" Liddons asks stepping around the edge of his desk. For a brief instant Faith feels an intense urge to answer, to tell the truth. With a minimal effort she pushes it back down concentrating on Liddons desk. It's the only piece of dark furniture in the entire room, like a reminder of where he is. For the first time Faith sees the open folder on his desk. She doesn't need a very good imagination to know that's her file she's glancing at.

After a moments silence Liddons picks up as if nothing were amiss. Glancing down at the folder he begins, "because there seems to be a bit of confusion in the subject. Here I have an arrest report and a few pieces of subsequent documentation all of which has your D.O.B. listed July 15, 1982 which would have you turning eighteen in just a few months. Now, and this is the problem, some altruistic gentleman out there has proof that you're only going to be celebrating your sixteenth birthday. Not only does he have proof, but he also has the political muscle to have it mean something."

"What do you mean?" Faith demands, her eyes narrowing, her body tensing.

"What it means, according to a liberal bleeding heart Judge, is that you never should have been placed here. That the cops that processed you, the D.A. that prosecuted you should have verified your age. That as a minor it wasn't up to you, but your guardian, to accept the plea bargain or refuse council or confess in the first place."

Faith could feel her chest constricting, growing tighter, making it harder for her to breath with each and every word he says. She bolts up out of the chair, knocking it over as she spins around. She quickly turns back, wild eyes boring into Liddons' skull. "You can't just let me go," she blurts out frantically. "I killed those people. I deserve to be here, I have to be here. It's the only way I can pay for everything I've done." _The only way I can prove to Buffy that I'm not evil_, _that I'm sorry_. She adds silently, but with far more fervor.

"Faith," Liddons' voice cuts into her thoughts, "I have no doubts what-so-ever that you killed those people, that this is where you should live out the rest of your natural life. Unfortunately I don't control these things. If I did this is where you'd be staying."

"What's that suppose to mean? I just get a walk? Get away with murder because of when I was born?"

"Pretty much," Liddons answers with a disappointed shrug. "Since your confession isn't worth the paper it's printed on and there's no solid evidence connecting you to any of the…"

"I'll confess again. I'm old enough now."

He shrugs closing the folder. "Judge already overturned the previous conviction so another confession would be about as meaningful as this one on account of you already having your trail and all. Of course the Judge also decided that you need to have a strong, positive, nurturing influence in your life so he declared that you're to become the ward of one Charles Xavier, the Head Master of a private academy back east. One of the school's representatives will be here in the morning to collect you and your things. You'll be staying in one of the residential units until then."

Faith scowls at the man. This is definitely not what she wants. How is she suppose to prove to Buffy that she wants to make amends, make it right between them if somebody comes along and rips it away from her. Of course she could always kill Liddons, just reach out and snap his neck like a dry twig, but that would be a little counter productive on her part.

"You can go now. Sergeant Bimm will show you to your quarters," he says with a negligent flip dismissing her. Faith glares at him for a moment before turning to leave. As she approaches the door his voice stops her as he says, "and Faith. Stay out of trouble tonight," almost like an after thought.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Amanda's scowl takes in the far wall as she strides menacingly towards the hard, white plaster. Her arms folded across her chest, the white silk blouse is spotless despite the swath of destruction strewn across the room. Her skirts, made of a light material and divided for riding make a distinctive swish with each step. Her soft soled leather boots barely make a sound as she pads across the floor.

She had been out all night -- the previous day and the one prior to that -- looking Jacques to no avail. Nobody has seen hide nor hair of him for nearly a week, about the same time she last saw him. They had been friends, and occasionally something more, for more then a decade now and this is the first time that he has been gone more then a couple days with leaving her word.

Without warning she pivots in mid stride and heads back the way she just came. Fiery sparks seem to shoot from her eyes as she takes in the robust man just shy of his fortieth year standing in her path. "A week he's been gone and no word," she snarls at him despite knowing it isn't his fault. She simply needs an object to vent her rage and Eblin is who she has at hand.

Eblin rubs his slightly portly hands together as he takes a step back, away from the enraged and armed woman. Never a good combination in his opinion, though he wisely keeps that view to himself. "Perhaps he's off fetching some trinket back for one of them there rich merchants that's always in need of his service?"

"He tells me before he goes off," Amanda hisses knowing it's entirely possible, but finding it highly unlikely. "Besides I normally go with him," she adds defensively. After having him forcefully intrude, push himself into her life she knew him better then she's known anybody before -- with the possible exception of Rebecca. She's practically the one who reinvented him. New clothes, hairstyle, grooming. So him just leaving without telling her is on a very short list of things he would do.

At least she believes it's something he wouldn't do. Especially considering how he came into her life. Barging. Refusing to leave no matter what she did.

It took nearly a month for her to realize that there was no getting rid of him. Wherever she went there he was. She could put a thousand miles between them and at the end he would be there waiting for her. Like a cat who found a favorite mouse to play with.

Once she gave in, stopped running, and allowed Leon a place on the fringes of her life it took her another six months to get him out of the fur animal hides he had still been wearing. The only clothes she had ever seen him wear. He's so set in his ways she could almost believe he came from a different time altogether.

Only he is mortal, at least she believes he's mortal. He isn't immortal. Although in the ten years she's known him, he's never been sick. Not even the slightest case of the sniffles.

There's a lot about Leon that she still doesn't known. For a moment she wonders if this is what a mortal involved with an immortal is like. The lack of personal information, or history.

"Wherever Master Leon has gotten off to I'm sure he's well." Eblin's thick voice pulls Amanda out of her silent musings. "He's the finest swordsman I've ever seen before. Why one time I saw him defend a little beggar boy from a troupe of Royal guard. Didn't kill a one of them and walked away with out a scratch he did."

Amanda nods at the statement. She's seen similar things from Leon. Taking on dozens of armed men at a time and not just winning but utterly embarrassing his foes. Normally cut throats and their ilk, entire guilds of thieves at a time. With never an injury to show.

There are other questions she has aside from his skill with a sword, any weapon really, or without any weapon for that matter. Skill that surpasses any immortal she has ever seen.

Then there's the nagging suspicion that he knows that she is immortal. Little comments, vague innuendoes. The fact that no immortal has challenged her in the decade Leon has carved a place in her life. She's felt them so she knows they've felt her but nobody has approached her. Friend or foe.

She looks over at Eblin, the man Leon called up, from where she didn't know, shortly after they reached Athens. The two of them had a history, that much is obvious.

The type of history though, that's the mystery. Neither Leon or Eblin ever discuss their past and she's never pressed them on the matter. "You've been in service to Leon for quite some time now? All the years you've spent with us here and more before."

He smiles, patiently as he studies her without looking too closely. "Aye Ms. Amanda," he says after a moments hesitation. "I've known the Master longer then most alive. Just this side of thirty years I suppose it is now. I were in Vienna, keeping one step ahead of the local magistrate as it were. The alarm had gone up throughout the city a few hours before dark, seems a few score of Viking longboats had been spotted off shore. I'd like to be able to tell you that I was one of those brave souls getting ready to face death, or worse at the hands of those savage creatures in defense of my home but the truth of the matter is I were just trying to find a place to hide and wait out the butchering that were about to take place. Not very brave but then again I never have been.

"By the time the first boats hit the shore I were still looking for a little hidey hole. Well I came around one corner and there were the first wave of them savages, burning, killing, looting, pillaging, to their hearts content. Leaving nothing standing in their wake, and there I found myself. In there wake.

"I turned and ran like all hordes of Hades were hot on my heels. I turned back round the corner I came down and there he is, large as life, so to speak, walking down the street without a care in the world, a bottle in each hand. I rush by shouting at him, warning him of the horde chasing after me.

"I still wonder what would have happened if they didn't attack him? If he would have just let them go on about there merry business of chopping me into little pieces. As it were, because he were closer they attached him first. I expected to hear his death cries in seconds, only it were the ring of steel striking steel.

"Should of just kept running is what I should of done, only I couldn't help but take a look back. There he were, one man weaving a swath of death through the most fearsome horde I've ever seen. It were like seeing some strange dance. Didn't take but moments for him to break their will to fight, and send them scurrying like a pack of mangy dogs. I half thought he was going to chase them down."

Amanda frowns as Eblin speaks. Realizing the old man isn't about to stop talking anytime soon she cuts him off saying, "you tell me that and you expect me to believe he was done in by a band of cut throats, thieves, and vagabonds."

"Well it has been thirty years Ms. Amanda," Eblin responds.

"I think you've been hit in the head one too many times. If Leon is a day over thirty-five…"

"He doesn't look a day older then the first time you lain eyes on him." Amanda blinks as she cast her mind back down the long decade. All of her memories of Leon, different clothes, different hairstyle, but always the same. Never aging.

_How did I miss it_? She asks herself silently. _Why couldn't I see it_? _Is that why he left_, _so I wouldn't discover his secret_? _Didn't he notice that I don't look a day older since we met_?

"I've known him three times as long as you Ms. Amanda and he's always looked just the way he's looked. Though you've managed to add a touch of civility to him Ms. Amanda, more then I ever thought possible."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The kitchen is packed with people. What had started out as just Logan, with Duncan nearby, and Kurt on the fringes as Amanda told Logan, or Leon as Amanda continues to call him, had quickly escalated with Dawn emerging from the basement followed by a slightly less tortured looking Spike and the android he had constructed in Buffy's image, though she had been looking less then pleased that he's out of his sick bed. Later on, a few hours -- maybe less -- Xander, Anya, and Buffy had arrived and taken up positions around the small room.

At about four o'clock, Duncan with assistance from both Buffy's had prepared a large pasta dinner with the ingredients Giles and the two witches, Willow and Tara, had brought with them from the store.

Dawn gazes at Amanda with large, wide and clear crystal blue eyes as the immortal finishes her tale. The details were so rich and vivid she almost felt like she had been all the places Amanda had talked about. That she could just reach out and touch all the strange and wonderful; images, people, and places Amanda painted with her words.

The innumerable masses of a Shanghai port market. The torrential, down pouring rain, the feel of the slick mud through the soles of her boots. The pulse pounding excitement, adrenaline rushing thrill of a sword fight. The fear facing someone vastly better then you and knowing they could kill you any moment.

Dawn quickly glances at Logan before shifting her attention back to Amanda, a slightly perplexed frown creasing her lips. If Amanda is the kind of woman Logan is attracted to then why had he been with her mother.

Rational, sensible, level headed. Those were all accurate words to describe her mother. Nothing at all like the master thieve sitting across the table. Of course Amanda never said that they had been involved with each like that.

"Neither of you ever saw each other after that?" Kurt inquires breaking the extended silence. He himself knew Amanda from a long time ago. From his childhood more then two decades in the past. At the time she had been one of the few adults to accept him without any reservations. Despite the tale she just spun of thievery and swashbuckling adventures that have lasted more then a millennium he can't help but see her as he remembers. A beautiful woman in desperate need of help.

Dawn shoots a quick glance at the blue skin mutant whose squatting on the counter top -- claiming he finds chairs to be highly uncomfortable because of his tail -- a cup of hot coco cradled in his hands. His tail, a small teaspoon held in its grip, lazily stirs his drink. Catching Dawn looking at him he flashes her a warm, sharp tooth smile.

"Never," Amada answers.

Right on top of her Duncan says, "there was Berlin. During the middle of the war…"

"Gonna have to be a lot more specific with this bunch mate. Lot of you's been around for awhile. I'm fairly sure there's been more then one war took place around Berlin," Spike cuts in with a wide smirk on his face.

For once Xander seems to find amusement with what Spike said as he chuckles lightly. Just until he remembers that it was Spike doing the talking and that alone cuts his laughter short.

There's nothing light about Duncan's returning glare that takes in both the vampire and the mortal.

"That's right," Amanda agrees remembering the conversation she and Duncan had just a few short days ago. Her dark eyes doing their best to pin Logan to the pot, a task she is rediscovering is all but impossible. "How did you crack that safe so quickly?" She demands. Then as an after thought she adds, "without any tools?"

"If I had any idea what you were talking about darling we wouldn't be having this conversation," Logan responds tersely.

"It probably has to do with his enhanced senses," Giles supplies putting the dish cloth down. "Mr. Logan here can quite possibly hear the tumblers clicking without the aid of any specialized equipment. It really is quite fascinating. Why with just a few days to run some test I could probably learn exactly what the upper limit of your senses are."

Logan's glare intensifies drastically as he stares at Giles. "I see a needle anywhere in my vicinity and we're going to find out exactly what your…"

"Logan," Kurt interrupts. He didn't think Rupert meant anything by his statement. The man simply has a mind that needs to classify and put into some kind of order everything he comes across. The last thing he wants is for Logan to start elimanating their allies. It would just be doing Glory's work for her.

Giles blanches slightly as if just realizing what he said, how it can be construed. Especially by a group of people who have an intrinsic fear of that exact thing happening to them. "That was a rather crass thing to say," Giles begins starting to apologize.

"Sure as hell was Rupert," Spike growls at the watcher with as he produces a cigarette and lights it with a large flourish.

A moment later the Buffy-bot snatches it out of his mouth crushing it out. "Smoking isn't allowed in the house. If you want to have a cigarette you'll either have to go outside or into the basement and open a window." She informs Spike with a stern expression.

Giles ignores Spike's comment and the androids public service message as he adds, "Especially considering your experiences."

"The basement's in the bloody house," Spike grips.

A large frown spreads across the robots face. "I'm sorry Spike. You know how much I love you I'd let you smoke wherever you want, but they," she points at Willow, Buffy, and Xander, "forced me to say those awful things to you and be a bad girlfriend."

"Sodden blighter," Spike mumbles to himself as all the eyes in the room settle on him. "Put my hands on that bloody git I'm gonna string him up by his bleeding entrails," he snarls snatching another cigarette from his pack. Then he seems to notice everyone's gaze on him. "What?" He challenges them all. "It's that pounce Warren. I told him I wanted Buffy. Does that sound like bleeding Buffy?"

Several people open their mouth's to answer in the affirmative. Buffy's glare silences them before they can say anything. Not that Spike gave anybody a chance to speak as he continue.

"Sure it was nice for awhile, Buffy acting all lovey dovey but it weren't real. There was no fire, no passion. No thunderclouds bursting in her eyes sending out lighting bolts to strike me dead." With that he spins away from the assemble crowd and burst through the basement door like a man about to do murder.

"Being dead certainly seems to agree with him," Amanda comments even as the door swings close behind Spike with a loud thud. "At least as for as expressing himself. And his confidence is sky high compared to a century ago." She gives her head a shake as she mutters, "William The Bloody indeed."

Xander's eyes light with a dark gleam as he catches Amanda's comment. "You knew Spike back when he was alive?" He asks hopefully sensing untold amounts of ammunition just about to be dropped in his lap.

"Spike?" Amanda questions forgetting for a moment the god awful name he had taken for himself.

"William," Duncan reminds her.

"Oh William," Amanda echoes. "Only briefly, but a more Victorian Gentleman you'd be hard press to find. Especially for that day and age. Completely devoted to his mother and besotted with a young woman who would never be able to appreciate him. He use to write poems and sonnets about how he felt for her. They were some of the most beautiful works I'd ever heard. Don't get me wrong they were utterly horrendous, but they were him and that made them beautiful."

"Spike wrote poetry," Buffy whispers in wonder.

Xander smiles, an almost evil grin as he corrects Buffy saying, "Spike wrote bad poetry," with a special emphasis on bad.

Amanda glares at the young man, she notes that even Logan's scowl deepens as he takes in Xander from head to toe -- he may not like the vampire, but he has developed a sort of grudging respect for him. She had been trying to show them that there's more to William then the facade he shows everyone. Buffy seems to see it, so do Willow and Tara. Even Giles seems to be reevaluating his opinion, but for Xander it is all about finding new information that can be used to hurt his rival.

Before Amanda, Buffy, Dawn, or anybody else can say anything to put Xander in his place a quiet sniffle breaks the silence. It is followed closely by a second. Everybody turns their attention to Buffy's android double, tears -- or a watery tear like substance -- leaking from her eyes in a fast moving steam. Her bottom lip trembles as she attempts to hold in the sob threatening to break through. She gazes around at everyone with large pain-filled eyes. "Spike doesn't love me anymore," she finally sobs pitifully.

Willow shoots an intense gaze at the android. She had been very surprised at how easy it was to find a spell that would do what she desired, make a clone of Buffy's essence and instill into the android, golem by ancient terms. As easy as finding the spell had been it was nothing when compared to the simplicity of actually casting it.

She had expected it to be infinitely harder, more complicated than what it had been. Like finding the memory reclamation spell. Maybe it had something to do with frequency. How many mages, witches, or other spell casters ever had to have their memories restored and how many made mobile targets of themselves to draw enemy fire.

Buffy's face hardens as she glares at the machine made to look like her. With a low, unintelligible utterance she marches to the basement door, nearly pulls it off it's hinges opening it, and storms downward slamming the door behind her.

"Men are just plain evil," Anya says with a frown, feeling an unusual sense of empathy for the android. The Buffy-bot had been nice to her from their first meeting, showing a genuine interest in the things Anya enjoys, money and sex. Taking a couple steps, she grabs a box of paper tissue from the window sill, causing the light, spring curtains to stir slightly. "Especially the undead soulless evil kind that have robots built of the woman they love," she adds putting a comforting arm around the androids shoulders.

"He said he loved me," the android says plucking a tissue from the box and dabbing at her eyes.

"They always do," Anya murmurs turning her towards the door. "If I was still a vengeance demon I'd grant your wish in…" Her voice trails off as she moves out of range of most of the people in the kitchen.

Xander gawks at where his girlfriend had been while Giles gives his head a rueful shake. The newly reinstated watcher turns his attention to Logan, "Buffy's told us a bit about your memory loss. I think that we might have found a solution, a spell."

"A spell?" Logan asks doubtfully.

Giles shrugs as he continues speaking. "Willow and Tara finished researching this afternoon." Giles gives Logan a worried smile before he continues. "It's not without some risks."

"What kind of risk?" Dawn demands having a better understanding of magic then Logan did.

Amanda sets her nearly empty cup down on the opposite side sink, near the coffee pot and Kurt.

"Just a few old standards, hair falling out, but it re-grows normally. A blue pigmentation to the skin that would last a week at most," he answers.

"This is a long way from Kalderash country," she says earning a small frown from Kurt who doesn't catch the reference. Willow however hears the name and frowns at the familiar sounding word. "Did you ever manage to join The Munich Circus?"

"Ja," he answers. "For awhile."

"I remember how you were, always talking about becoming the most famous, high flying acrobat to ever perform under the big Top. That you were going to travel all over the world. Performing in all the great cities."

Kurt smiles, a little sadness touching his eyes. "It was the experience of a life time. At least while the audience thought I was just wearing costume. Once they found out this is what I really look like," he says gesturing at himself, "the cries of demon and beast and monster rang out. It was all I could do to get out with a whole skin."

Amanda shakes her head. "You would think, that the human race would grow up eventually." She mutters with disgust having experienced a persecution or two herself over the span of her life. "What about Stefan? Janna? The three of you were inseparable growing up."

A little of Kurt's smile drops from his face. "I haven't laid eyes on Stefan since the night I fled the circus half a step ahead of a mob wanting my head decorating the top of a pitchfork, and Janna," his voice takes on a harder edge. "It's been nearly six years since the clan sent her off, because a curse an ancestor called down upon an enemy had begun to unravel."

"You didn't agree?" Amanda questions.

Kurt shakes his head vehemently. "They were wrong with what they did in the first place. A vampire kills a member of your family, your clan, find the foul creature and kill him. What they did," he says pausing with disgust. "Ripping a soul from heaven." he gives his head another shake.

"Excuse me," Willow says interrupting Kurt and Amanda. "I don't mean to intrude on a private conversation but I couldn't help over hear you talking."

"Ja… Yes," Kurt replies.

"You were saying something about a soul and a vampire and somebody sent to watch them," Willow begins but stops as she glances at Giles whose explaining the memory spell to Logan. "And I'm sorta, kinda hoping that you'd tell me exactly what it is you're talking about."

Kurt sighs slightly. He didn't really like discussing the subject especially with strangers. While his adoptive family may have been extremely proud of the cruelty they could inflict, he had been, and still is extremely disgusted by what they did, and to this day continues to perpetuate.

Before he can say anything though Amanda speaks up. "And why would he want to do that?" She inquires, a challenging note in her voice.

Willow meets Amanda's eyes for a brief moment. Exhaling softly she starts, "I have a friend, Angel, who just happens to be a vampire with a soul and if he's the same one your friend was sent to watch, then I have some really bad news for you."

Kurt eyes narrow as he focuses in on the young redhead. With a quick move he hops off the counter. "A hundred years ago a vampire killed the favored daughter of the Kalderash clan. In order to exact their revenge on the fiend, they forced his soul back into his body, forced it into a dead body alongside one of the most vilest kind of demon. Almost a century later the old woman felt the curse unraveling, felt the soul beginning to feel peace instead of the pain and suffering the demon inflicted on people. They sent Janna, Jenny as she was calling herself by that time, to watch him. She had come to America years earlier in order to attend school. It was my first time in the country, trying to talk her out of doing her family's bidding. She has always been loyal to the clan. It truly is her only fault."

"Jenny," Willow says softly remembering the young computer science teacher. "That wouldn't be Jenny Calendar would it?"

"How do you know that?" He demands.

Willow swallows, wishing she hadn't broached the subject in the first place, but she did and now she has to deal with the consequences. "She was here," the tiny redhead admits. Tara, having an innate sense of her lover's distress, silently takes Willow's hand, squeezing gently lending her what strength she needs.

"To keep an eye on your friend, Angel?" Amanda suggest.

Willow gives a small nod in response. "She was suppose to make sure the curse remained unbroken." She takes a small breath. "There's a happiness clause attached to the curse experience one moment of pure bliss, no pain, remorse, guilt and the curse is lifted. Well, Angel fell in love, soul-mates, were meant to be together, at first sight, kind of way."

Amanda frowns slightly as she asks, with a mildly confused voice, "and that was enough to break the curse?"

Willow's eyes widen a small fraction of an inch as her face reddens. "It wasn't so much the falling in love as the, uhm… You know?" They continue to look at her with blank faces and her skin darkens ever so slightly. "Consummating their love," she says in a rush.

Kurt frowns slightly at the information while Amanda nods. "He killed Janna," Kurt states forcefully.

"Why didn't…" Amanda starts to asks but stops as realization dawns on her. Catching Willow's eye she finds all the confirmation she needs there.

"You have to understand for more then a year he had been working with us, helping. He saved Buffy's life, saved the world." She gives her head a small, sad shake as she murmurs, "he was a completely different person. Cruel instead of nice. Wicked, not kind. Hateful, but it was still him. Still the person Buffy fell in love." She looks up at them. "How does somebody kill the person they love?"

Amanda's eyes shift downwards. She hadn't been able to kill Kenneth when she had the chance. Even after eight hundred years and him threatening Duncan's life. Kenneth was more of a son to her, but still…

"So you recast the curse?" Kurt questions.

Willow nods. "Jenny did the translation. It's why Angelus killed her. We didn't know about the spell at first. We thought he did it because Jenny and Giles," Kurt's eyes instantly flash to the watcher, "were seeing each other and this was another way of hurting Buffy. It wasn't until I found the disk with the spell that we figured out why but by then Angel was planning on sucking the world into hell. In the end I managed to cast the spell restoring his soul, but he had already started the ritual and Buffy had to send him to hell in order to stop it."

A sudden, loud crash reverberates through the house causing nearly everyone in the kitchen to jump. Only Logan, who has a broad grin planted across his face seems unfazed by the noise that originated in the cellar. Turning his attention back to Giles he growls, "lets get this over with," as he rises to his full height.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"I still don't see why you need to drag me along with you," Joe grumbles loudly as he makes his way through the throng of people filling the airport terminal. His pace a little slower then the average person, but not noticeably. The silver headed cane makes a rich clank as it strikes the hard floor.

Methos pulls his eyes away from the shatter proof windows lining the outside wall, at the darkness or what should be darkness beyond. So much has changed in just a few short centuries, after millennium with no drastic advancements of any kind, more than he ever would have imagined before. Lights so bright they turn night to day, humans flying as if they were born to it, racing towards the stars with never a care.

He covers his private thoughts with a light smirk that he forces to his eyes as well as the rest of his face. "I already told you…"

"Not that I don't believe that you were there when Caesar was assassinated, despite the fact there isn't any mention of an advisor…"

"What were they going to say Joe? Killed along with his personal attaché who later got up and walked away from the incident?" He inquires with an arched brow. "Better for all concerned that he died alone."

"It still doesn't explain dragging me along," Joe reiterates marching towards the metal detectors.

"You're his watcher." Methos replies still astonished at what the network he started more then twenty five hundred years ago has evolved into. Basically their function, to watch and observe immortals and report their whereabouts to him, hasn't altered even if the entity has taken on a life of it's own.

He can't help but chuckle slightly, if the watchers only knew what the tattoo they cherish so much originally meant. Still means to him. He bares the same mark on his own wrist, but for him it's nothing more then a brand, a mark of ownership, put on him when he had been little more then a boy. After his first death -- at his master's hands -- and he discovered he is immortal he tried to remove the brand every conceivable way, short of removing his hand.

Only it always reappeared within a matter of seconds. That had been when he discovered how quickly his body heels from injuries. How it remains constantly the same, his hair needs to be cut ever few days, if he let it grow to the length it had been at when he died it would take weeks for it to grow even a fraction of an inch longer after that.

"What's so amusing?" Joe asks more then just a little perturbed.

"With that little plaque you have, because of your disability I was able to park a lot closer to the terminal then I normally would have," he says with a friendly smile so Joe would know he's simply joking.

Even so Joe tenses letting a terse, "ha, ha," escape his lips. "Now if you don't tell me why you're in such a rush all of sudden I'm taking my plaque and going the hell home."

Methos looks around as he says, "I got this felling that something's going to happen."

"Something," Joe repeats slowing slightly. "Something bad?"

Methos shrugs saying, "I don't know. Just something." He glances at Joe, the skeptical look the watcher is giving him. "Every now and then I get these feelings. In my gut and I just know something is going to happen. It took me more then a few centuries before I started paying attention to them. Right now it's telling me to get my scrawny butt out to Sunnydale and to drag your carcass along."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"…subject entering the final gate. Do you want me to follow?" Lt. Col. Michael Rossi's barely audible voice is transmitted thousands of miles to the man that gives him his orders. Col. Nick Fury.

"That's a go," Fury's gruff voice growls directly into Rossi's ear. "Keep Pearson in sight at all cost. There'll be a unit waiting your arrival in Sunnydale. We can only assume this is some kind of retribution against MaCleod for his interference in the Horsemen's terrorist threat in Paris back in ninety-six."

"If it is?" Rossi inquires as he watches Pearson sling his carry on over his shoulder. "MaCleod saved a lot of lives in Paris…"

"Pearson's the objective. It's been nearly four years since Paris. Men like him don't change. He's got something in the works. I can feel it my bones."

"So we just hang MaCleod out to dry?" Rossi demands not bothering to hide the anger filling his voice.

"MaCleod's more then capable of taking care of himself. Just make sure Pearson stays alive. Those are your orders. Understand."

"Understood sir, Rossi out," he responds following Adam Pearson through the last checkpoint. He didn't care what Fury's orders were. There's no way he is going to let MaCleod come to any harm. From the file he's read MaCleod is a rare breed of men. The fact that he single handedly averted a biological terrorist attack, killing three of the four ring leaders in the process. Duncan MaCleod is not the kind of man that you just let be killed when there's a chance to prevent it.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The house is dark, the only light coming from the faint ambers glowing on the recently burned out candles. The slight scent of rosemary and apricots fills the air. The only sound is the hush breathing of the people gathered around in anticipation. After several seemingly long moments with nothing changing Dawn finds the waiting to be beyond agonizing, unbearable and finally blurts out, "well? Anything? Are your memories starting to come back?"

Logan looks up, the answer in his eyes long before he says, "it was a long shot at best." Despite his casual tone there is no mistaking the disappoint in his voice.

"Look on the bright side," Xander starts. "At least they didn't turn you blue, With the way Willow's spells work there was a fifty percent chance of that happening."

"It should've worked," Willow mumbles to herself while Tara shoots daggers at her lover's best friend.

With a quick glance at Kurt, Xander hastily adds, "not that there's anything wrong with being blue. The color works for some people."

Kurt ignores the youth. He knew there had been no malice behind his words. Just a young man trying to relieve the tension. "I am sorry it did not work my friend."

"We did everything right," Willow continues softly as she tries to figure out why the spell didn't work.

"You all right?" Logan asks standing up.

Kurt nods saying, "just got some bad news earlier."

"The incantations, the pronunciation."

"Heard, feel like talking about it?"

Kurt shakes his head. "I'm just going to find a nice, quiet place. Reflect on simpler times and pray for guidance."

Logan nods. "If you change your mind Elf," he says leaving the statement hanging there.

"I'm sorry," Tara begins, a slight stammer to her words as the crowd begins gathering around. "When I saw the spell I thought it would be perfect. Hat…"

"No need to apologize," he says as Kurt slips away. "You didn't do nothing wrong."

"Are you sure about leaving tonight?" Buffy questions. Her stance challenging, but still defensive, as she faces him.

"The sooner I get up to L.A., pick up Faith, the quicker I get back here and the quicker we can get out of town. Are you sure Spike will be able to find something big enough for all of us?"

Buffy looks at Logan as if he's lost his mind. "If there's one thing Spike knows it's how to steel stuff. It might not always be the best, or the newest, or shiniest, or anything like that, but it…"

A low growl rumbles in Logan's chest cutting her short. Before he can say anything though Duncan puts his two cents in. "If you're worried about traveling in style then you should send Amanda with him. We'll be traveling all the way to Vegas in a stretch limo with a thirty person capacity."

Buffy shoots a brief withering glare at Duncan before returning her attention to Logan. "I know I put you onto Faith and everything, but. Be careful around her. I know she's been making progress, getting better, but I haven't seen her for myself in more then a year."

"I'll keep that in mind," Logan replies.

"You about ready?" Duncan questions slipping into his coat.

"How do you get that thing through metal detectors?" Xander asks poking at Duncan's long duster.

Duncan glances upward, a subtle shift of his eyes, at the fractionally taller young man. A light smirk wrinkling the corners of his eyes. "Carefully," he says with meaning.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt steps out the back door exiting the Summers' residence. He spots the tree sitting at the corner and vanishes in a flash of gray smoke. Less then a split second later he reappears at the base in another sulfurous smelling cloud and a soft pop.

_Janna's dead_, the thought floats in the front of his head_. If only I could have convinced her. I should have tried harder…_ _Damn what she said. Damn her stubborn, selfish, self. She'd still be alive if I just did what I wanted. Should have just taken her back with me. _With a bestial growl his fist lashes out against the thick oak tree leaving a small crack in the bole of the tree.

"Somebody's got a bit of a temper," Spike mutters stepping out from the backside of the tree. As far as he's concerned Buffy has a serious screw loose if she thinks he's going to apologize to some walking hunk of junk. It isn't his fault that Warren had programmed the damn thing to be so sensitive. He wanted the thing to act like Buffy, but that had been just a little too realistic.

"My apologies," Kurt starts. "I didn't realize anybody was there."

"No skin off my nose mate," Spike replies with a shrug. With a look at the tree he adds, "but I think the tree here might be looking for a band aid."

Kurt looks at the damage he's inflicted on the tree, a soft exhalation slipping past his lips. The sudden flare of light as Spike puts a flame to his cigarette and inhales draws Kurt's eyes for moment. Spike's eyes remain locked on the dancing flame in contemplation, a sinister smile absently forming on his face.

"She was a decent chit," Spike says suddenly closing his Zippo. "Your lady friend."

The shock on Kurt's face is almost palpable as he sputters, "how do you…"

"The walls around here have ears mate," Spike answers before Kurt finishes his question.

Kurt shakes his head as he mutters, "between you and Logan…"

"Don't forget Buffy," Spike interjects.

"…how does anybody expect to have a private conversation?" With that he turns away from the vampire. He takes a couple of disgruntle steps before turning back around to face Spike. "you knew Janna?"

Spike takes a short drag off his cigarette as he ponders the question. Exhaling he gives his head a small shake saying, "not so much. Almost had her as an after school snack a couple times but never really got the chance."

"You said…"

"Yeah well, figure anybody that could put up with Rupert as long as she did had to be a decent sort," Spike replies with a smirk. He takes another drag off his cigarette then adds, with smoke billowing from his mouth along with his words, "or not quite right in the head."

"Giles?" Kurt murmurs in disbelieve.

Spike nods, "it's about the only time the bloke has shown even the least bit of emotion." He takes a drag off his cigarette, holds it for a long moment savoring the flavor before letting it out. "Should of seen the bloke go off on Angel, it was really a sight to see. For a moment I thought he was going to kill the bastard. Only he was more interested in inflicting pain on the pounce bugger. Can appreciate that though, anybody hurt the ones I love I'd wanna make them suffer as well," Spike finishes in a soft whisper meant for himself alone.

"You don't like him," Kurt states as he comes to the realization.

"Despise him with every fiber of my being comes a bit nearer the mark." He takes another drag off his cigarette, tossed the spent object to the ground, then adds, "and more in the last few months then I thought possible."

"Willow's been trying to convince me that they're two separate entities forced to share one body," Kurt says wanting to get Spike's opinion.

"Bollix," Spike spits out. "With a soul, without a soul. I've known both, One's a bit nicer, not quite so blood thirsty, but they're both manipulative pricks with a thing for virginal young lasses. Find them, obsess over them, seduce them, and then destroy them."

Kurt frowns slightly. Willow made the entire situation seem so cut and dry. With a soul he's Angel, a good guy, a hero saving people. Without his soul he's Angelus, a depraved, cold blooded killer with no remorse.

"Now don't get me wrong. I'm no saint, far from it. Done things to make your blood curdle and all that rot, but Angel is one sadistic bastard. If you want I'm sure Rupert's got some books on his exploits, skinning pets and nailing their carcasses to the door. Things like that."

"You want me to kill Angel," Kurt says like a light bulb going off in his head.

Spike scowls at Kurt. "Please. Unless you've forgotten. Demons are the one thing I can kill without needing a pint of whiskey and a morning hangover to dull the migraine. So if I want Angel dead I'd take a trip on up to L.A. and kill him myself."

His frown deepens as he stares at the vampire. "Then why are you telling me this?" He asks, his confusion sharp in his voice.

Spike shrugs, a small roll of his shoulders. "Seemed better then talking about the California weather. Eighty degrees and sunny in the middle April. Give me crisp air and a pea soup thick fog any day of the week."

"Why do I get the feeling I shouldn't trust you?" Kurt questions with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Because you shouldn't," Spike replies pulling his pack of cigarettes from his duster pockets. "I am evil after all."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The siren wails through the dark air. Drips and drops of water splash and echo in little pools collected in the uneven and broken pavement. A pair of Tom cats screech and yowl as they contest the ownership of a dead rat.

Garbage, trash and discarded junk line the alley, filled from one dingy, faded red brick wall to another. On the west facing wall a set of concrete stairs lead up to a second floor door while a second stairwell opens up into a basement storehouse that has been broken into one too many times about a thousand times ago. A thick heavily dented gray steel door stands flush with the street on the south wall, bracketed by a pair of large blackened widows with heavy wrought iron cages and a heavy wire mesh welded in front of them. A rusted fire escape hangs askew on the east wall.

Merk glances down at the grungy piece of paper in his hands before looking over at Quil. His companion did not look good, unsurprising considering the fact he had lost his hand and wrist during the confrontation with the crazed human in the stairwell. Then the great and oh so magnificent Gloricifous wouldn't allow the limb to be reattached. Some allowance could be made for losing a confrontation to a slayer with their mystically enhanced powers, but a human -- no matter that he came with built in weapons and healed almost instantly from the most grievous of injuries -- is totally and completely unacceptable to the temperamental deity.

Quil wipes his hand across his coarse brown cape, an extremely worrisome expression marring his otherwise scabrous face. Twisting his hand slightly he glances briefly at Merk, "this looks like the proper place."

"It matches the address that our Omnipotent and all powerful deity's seer gave our great Gloricifous," Merk replies with a subtle condescending air to his tone.

"I don't suppose they mentioned how we're going to recognize this agent of death?"

Merk looks around the alley, grimacing slightly at grime. "The seer simply said we should come to this location and he would make himself known to us."

"You…" Quil starts as glass shatters, metal rends with screech before clanging to floor.

Both Merk and Quil whip their heads around at the sudden sound just in time to see a large, burly shaven headed man roll to stop in a stack of wooden pallets. The right window stood open, it's black glass covering the pavement below the opening, the heavy steel cage that had been covering the glass rocks slowly on the ground.

A heavy cloud of smoke flows outward. Hard music pounds out of opening that is already filled with the thick stench of beer and other alcohol, along with other various noxious smelling aromas.

A roar, like a large hunting cat, fills the air. Not loud enough to drown out the music but it reverberates on such a level it can be felt by everyone. A second roar, this one louder. The music stops with sudden jerk.

This time both Merk and Quil see the black glass of the second window shatter outwards with the heavy body that crashes through it. The steel screen buckles, the bottom right corner breaking away from the brick wall, but holds.

Panic cries and shouts erupt from inside. The first person; a long legged, long haired blonde wearing an extra short, black leather mini skirt, a sheer top, with five inch stiletto heels jumps out the broken window, her feet crunching on the glass. A moment later a wiry man squirts through, hitting the woman with his shoulder sending her spinning. Without a backward glance he darts away --briefly glancing at Merk and Quil -- as the blonde loses her balance and falls, back towards the ground.

With a sickening wet sound a pair of the jagged metal bars punch their way through her body, right shoulder and just below her left rib cage. She screams out, a pain filled shriek as her face contorts in a mask of agony.

Then the exodus begins in earnest as the door burst open revealing a sea of people trying to exit the building all at once. Others jump through the window with the reckless abandon of lemmings going over a cliff. Some fall, pushed or jostled by those around them, a few suffering the same piercing fate as the blonde, but most simply got trampled by the mob hot on their heels.

Another roar fills the air just as a second body hit's the wire meshed cage with the force required to rend it from its welds with ease. It and the bodies land several feet away.

Then the cause of the panic appears in the hole. Easily recognizable as human despite his bestial features. A thick, unkempt mane of long blonde hair frames a face that would put many in mind of the great cats. Sharp canine teeth easily twice as long and thick as a normal humans. Light colored eyes that seem to catch all the ambient light in the area giving them an eerie glow.

With a casualness that borders on predatory he jumps through the window hitting the pavement with a dull thud. Standing to his full height, a few inches under seven feet, he towers over everyone in the alley. His clothes give the appearance of rags, dregs cast off by others when in fact he's owned some of them more then a century.

Stranglers a handful of people either too drunk or otherwise afflicted seem to sober up as Victory Creed, the man known to the world at large as Sabertooth, roars into the night. They suddenly find even greater reason to be elsewhere in a hurry.

Merk smirks as he turns his attention to Quil. "And you thought we were going to have a problem locating…"

"You," Creed's harsh guttural voice cuts Merk off in his verbal tracks.

The two demons swivel their heads back around to face Creed as he stalks straight for them. Almost in unison with each other Merk and Quil swallow hard.

Merk, possessing a slightly sterner backbone then his companion, steps forward. "I bring greetings from her most splendorous, the shiniest center of the known universe Gl…"

Creed's casual backhand sends him sailing the width of the alley. He hit's the wall with bone crushing force. Bouncing off the brick wall he drops to the ground landing in a heap of trash.

With a lightening quick lunge his hand wraps around Quil's throat, his thick claws cutting deep into the demons flesh. With no effort Creed lifts him from the ground and holds him aloft. "Where is he?" He growls sniffing the air.

"Who?" Quil manages to breath out.

Creed growls, a low rumble deep in his chest, "Wolverine. His stench is all over you." He gives his head a savage, animalistic shake. "I owe him pain."

"So tall," he starts holding his hand up to approximate Logan's height, "dark hair," he continues as he holds up his stub of an arm, "these razor sharp claws in each arm?"

"Where?" Creed mumbles.

"Our most, extremely magni…" Creed's fist tightens around his throat. "Sunnydale," Quil chokes out. Creed drops him to the ground and he struggles to regain his breath as he continues, "Gloricifous, the most magnificent Goddess to ever set foot on this mud ball, has a proposition for you, for your unique skills. And if in the process you come across this Wolverine you can inflict all the pain on him you want." He rushes out in a high speed burst.

Creed watches the demon lying on the ground, scenting the air. Savoring the intoxicating aroma of the fear, the blood filling it, both human and demon. Relishing the idea of not only getting some payback against Wolverine, but earning a hefty chunk of cold hard cash as well. Life couldn't get much better then that. "Lead the way demon."


	8. Chap 8: Paragons of Innocence Part 1

**Chapter Eight: Paragons of Innocence – Part One**

Pale morning light streaks across the sky chasing the deep ocean blue four door sedan down the four lane black top. Guardrails whiz past looking like nothing more then gleaming steal toothpicks stood on end. A stream of smoke billows almost continuously out of the small crack in the passenger window.

Duncan glances, a slight shifting of his chocolate brown eyes, at his passenger. There's an edge, a wariness to his demeanor that had been lacking in their two previous, albeit limited, encounters. It's almost like he is a completely different person, which considering what he has gone through is exactly what he is.

The man -- Logan, Luc, Leon, or Ghost depending on who you ask -- has a more universal name. One known by everyone, or nearly so. One that suits him much better. Wolverine.

With the way he inhales it's as if he is contemplating eating his cigar. That or crushing it in his bare hands.

Logan lifts his left hand to his temple. Putting pressure there he rotates his forefinger in an attempt to relieve the pressure.

"You alright?" Duncan asks.

"Tension," Logan answers in a low growl.

Duncan nods realizing that there aren't a lot of things that are going to give a man with an accelerated healing genome a migraine. About the only thing he can think of that would do it is tension.

Logan rolls his window down a little more and tosses the nearly spent cigar out. "You know Buffy's planning something?" He mention as if it is of absolutely no importance.

He nods saying, "she seemed a little anxious when we were getting ready to leave." He cast a suspicious glance at Logan. "Why didn't you say anything before now?"

"Why didn't you?" Logan responds liberating another cigar.

Duncan opens his mouth then closes it as he realizes Logan knows the same thing he does. They didn't have a choice in the matter. With as powerful as Glory is they are going to need Faith. He hates admitting that. He's been fighting one on one battles for so long that accepting someone else's help, let alone asking for it is a completely foreign concept to him. One he doesn't like.

"Real question though," he starts lighting his cigar. The flame from his Zippo dancing madly in the breeze from the open window. "Is what you and Amanda are still sticking around for?"

Duncan glances at Logan wondering what the man is getting at. Before he can respond though Logan is already speaking.

"Especially when most people, the ones with an once of common sense, would be heading for the hills fast as they can."

"Nobody ever said I had an ounce of common sense. And once you get to know Amanda again…" He replies leaving the statement hanging there.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with Dawn being one of you?"

The sedan swerves as Duncan jerks the staring wheel. Eyes wide he stares intensely at Logan for several long seconds as the car speeds ahead._ There's no way he could possibly know that. Not with certainty anyway. Could he?_

"Should probably pay a little more attention to the road," Logan comments breathing out a lung full of smoke. "Know the accident won't kill us but it'll slow us down a bit. At least wait till we can commandeer another car."

Duncan hastily corrects the sedan's course. "What makes you think she's… Immortal?"

"I'm a mutant not an idiot." Logan answers. "There's a reason everyone does the things they do and you'd need a pretty big reason to stay here. With what's going on."

Duncan gives his head a shake as he drives ahead. "That still…"

Logan's snorts as inhales deeply. "Here's an interesting fact you probably ain't aware of. Most people aren't."

"What's that?"

"Everybody smells different deep down. Similarities among siblings, specially identical twins." Logan answers turning his head slightly to gaze out the side window.

Duncan takes a quick peak over at Logan. Seeing the almost glazed look in his stare the Highlander wonders what is going on inside Logan's head. "There's a point in there, somewhere?" A light flashes in his eyes as understanding sparks. Whatever it is that makes an Immortal what they are, even before their first death, Logan can smell it.

Logan looks back over at Duncan, his dark eyes look like pearls in the dim light. "All of you's smell like fresh lime, only different. You a bit stronger then Amanda, but both of you are like pale, flickering candles compared to the sun. Whatever it is that the monks used to make her, this key…"

"The prize," Duncan murmurs. Logan glances over, the question clear in his eyes. "It's what we fight for, when there's only one of us left. They'll receive the prize. Nobody knows what it is, but its suppose to be powerful giving whoever wields it dominion over mankind."

"Sounds like this key to me," Logan grumbles savagely. The razor sharp blades housed in his left arm slide out from between his knuckles. "Anybody comes after my little girl and you'll be able to use what's left of them for chum," he vows.

Duncan catches Logan's eye and bites back on his remark explaining the no interference rule. "You can't tell her," he says instead. "She can't know what she is until after her first death."

"What?"

"She'll age normally, like any mortal until she dies the first time. Once that happens she'll stay exactly as she is until another Immortal takes her head."

A deep rumbling, bubbles up from deep in Logan's chest. His claws glint as they catch the early morning light. Duncan can feel a profound sympathy for any Immortal that thinks Dawn is an easy mark, a head just waiting to be plucked.

Logan's claws slide back into their housings with a sharp steel on steel grate. Duncan winces slightly at the sound. He concentrates on the road ahead sensing that the conversation had run its course. Which is probably just as well all things considered.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"You started the Bolshevik revolution?" Amanda gasp in utter shock.

Anya shrugs as she closes the cash register drawer. "I just granted the wish," she answers nonplussed. "Although I've got to admit it was some of my best work."

Hard eyes glare at the former demon. "A lot of people I knew lost their lives when Stalin took power," she snarls in a harsh tone. "People that were simply in the wrong place. Families that wanted nothing more then to live their lives in peace."

A soft sigh slips past Anya's lips. There's no point in explaining what it had been like for her, to be a demon and then not be one. Nobody understood, nobody wanted to. Not even Spike, with the chip in his head preventing him from harming humans -- which he might not do anyway now that he's in love with Buffy -- knows what it is like. He's still a demon, still feels the bloodlust, can still unleash his dark, violent tendencies on other demons.

Not Xander or his friends. They would simply like to ignore the fact that for more then a thousand years she had been feared and revered throughout the world. For the most part she tried to put it behind her as well. Get on with her life as it is now. She didn't think she could go back to being a demon now anyway, not with having a group of friends she truly cares about.

"Ladies," Giles murmurs distractedly as he continues to read a relatively new looking text. He's been stuck in the shop all day listening to the pair of millennium old women compare historical figures they had encountered throughout the long centuries. Ostensibly they're suppose to be helping him with a little last minute research. Between the two of them Giles doubts if there's a language they can't read.

It's the first time Giles can remember Anya talking about her past, especially with such ease and fluidity. Normally she avoids any mention of her previous life. For their part nobody ever broaches the subject, unless there were dire circumstances approaching at speed.

"We're suppose to be transcribing these scripts," he reminds them gently. "Hopefully they'll hold some little tidbit… A nugget, something concerning Glory. A weakness that has never before seen the light of day. Something that may tip the scales of battle in our favor."

"But why us," Anya moans pitifully as Giles gets up from his chair. Stretching slightly, but otherwise acting completely natural. "shouldn't you have you're two Giles clones here instead. They're much better at this then I am. We are," she corrects quickly.

"A fact that is constantly being driven home. Like a white hot poker," he drones on in a loud murmur as he comes around the side of the counter. With a sudden move, like lightening that streaks out of a high summer sky, he jerks the door to small storage room open causing one of Glory's scabrous demons to stumble out.

Amanda grabs her coat, her sword seeming to leap from it's hidden scabbard and into her hand. With a quick, deft move she plants the razor sharp point in the hallow of his throat. He goes to move, wriggling backwards on his backside. Amanda presses the point in harder with a slight arch to her brow.

He stops instantly seeing the gleam in Amanda's eyes. He likes his head attached to his shoulder and he's heard rumors about the temperamental blonde who likes to play with sharp pointed objects.

Giles moves forward grabbing the demon by his ear and begins pulling him to his feet. Amanda raises the point of her sword so Slook can actually get up without impaling himself.

"Wow," Anya gasps.

A speculative look seeps over Giles' features as Amanda directs the scabrous demon to a chair. "Now what do we have here?" He murmurs aloud.

"Oh, he's one of those things that work for Glory," Anya supplies helpfully as she tries to be of assistance.

A light scowls sweeps over his face at Anya's answer to what had been nothing more then a rhetorical utterance It's there and gone so quickly nobody notices it. "Yes. How helpful," he remarks biting off most of the sarcasm.

"I do indeed work for the god. Let me go if you do not wish to incur her anger," Slook demands haughtily. A relatively impressive feat considering the point of Amanda's sword is still lodged in her his throat.

An evil smile slides over Giles' lips. "Well, she's not here. What a marvelous opportunity for you and me to talk," Giles demands pleasantly while directing a suggestive glance at Amanda's sword along with a tiny shooing motion.

Amanda takes the hint removing the sword from where it had been resting and takes a few steps back while feigning a level of indifference Giles is quite impressed with. He has the distinct feeling he wouldn't want to sit across from her in a game of poker.

"I will not betray Glorificus. I will never talk, no matter what heinous torture…"

"Actually," Giles begins with an amused glint lighting his eyes. "You're talking quite a lot, just not about the right things. Tell us why you're here."

"No words shall pass my lips that will bring peril to Glorificus," Slook boast proudly.

Giles doesn't take his eyes off the demon, but points with his hand. "Girls, get the twine that's on the counter. Let's tie him up."

Anya turns toward the counter to get the requested twine. Amanda however doesn't take her eyes off Giles. She watches as the Watcher makes a hooking gesture with his left hand and whispers a single word. She thinks it is in Aramaic but she isn't sure since the word had been spoken to softly to hear clearly.

"No," Slook sobs pitifully. "No! I'll tell you! Anything! Please! Whatever you want! Just, I'll, anything…"

Anya walks back over, lacking the twine Giles had requested. "What happened?"

"He's decided to talk," Giles answers.

"I'm ... I'm supposed to watch," he gasps still breathing hard. "We're watching the Slayer's people… While Glory fetches the key."

"Glory knows who the key is?" Giles demands losing his patience.

"We've got to call Buffy," Anya responds.

Slook smirks at them. "Too late. Too late. Glorificus will find the witch, and there's nothing you can do to stop her. "

"Witch?" Amanda inquires stepping forward menacingly.

Slook gazes at Amanda with a critical eye. The other woman had mentioned calling Buffy. If they had to call the slayer then that meant the blonde in front of him isn't her which meant he has a chance at getting away. A normal female isn't going to be any match for him.

"He's has to be referring about Tara," Giles infers. "If they know the key has been made human. With Tara being the newest among us." His face scrunches up as he scowls at himself turning slightly. "It's the obvious conclusion," he mutters softly, as if he is speaking to himself.

Suddenly Slook jumps out of the chair with a sudden burst of speed managing to shove Giles aside. If what he is hearing is correct then that means the witch isn't the key. If he's quick enough, and can explain to Glory how he found this out while keeping himself in a good light then there might be a reward of some type in it for him.

Razor sharp steel bites into his side doubling him over. Fiery pain burns through his side as the blade is withdrawn opening the wound wide. He clutches at his side as he drops to his knees. Turning his head to the side he looks up at the blonde, a dark light glinting in her eyes as she begins her spin. Light flashes off the blade as it arcs high then sweeps down. Slook closing his eyes hunching into himself hoping, praying for all he's worth, that somehow the blade is going to miss him. Go wide of its mark, breaks, or some other freak occurrence prevents his head from being separated from his shoulders.

A jolt runs up Amanda's arm as her sword slices cleanly through bone, muscle, and sinew. Her face is extremely pale, has been ever since she heard the demon's decree of a witch being the Key. That even now Glory is on her way to collect the blonde witch. "Sorry about the mess," she murmurs snatching her coat from where it lies on the table, hastily she drapes it over her sword and bolts out the door. She has no idea what she's going to do, but knows if she can buy Tara even a few minutes to get away it'll be worth it.

As Amanda rushes out the door Giles grabs the telephone while his eye drifts back to the corpse left on the floor. He quickly punches in the memorized numbers with alacrity.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy inches closer to the shadows while scanning the rows of heavy duty vehicles with a critical eye. To her, aside from color, one looks pretty much the same as the rest. Some are bigger then others front to back or side to side or top to bottom or some combination. That however didn't tell her what the vehicle -- trailer, camper, SUV, or RV -- is built for.

For that she has Spike. "What do you think?" She asks into the deep patch of darkness.

Light flares from the glowing amber at the end of Spike's cigarette. He snorts derisively. "Might as well just rent billboard space, or paint a sign that says here I am. Come and kill me and my mates now."

"What's wrong with them?" She questions a look of consternation creasing her brow.

"First of all," Spike starts off seriously. "None of them are red and just big enough to hold me, you, and bit." A mild glare lights her eyes as she turns her gaze on him. An indifferent sigh slips past his lips. "Fine. I'll find something big enough to fit everyone," he says graciously.

Buffy takes a deep breath settling her stomach. Sensing, knowing in her gut that this is going to be about the hardest thing she has ever done. Thanking Spike for keeping Dawn safe, for keeping their secret.

"Spike," she begins edging into the shadow. She looks down for a brief moment before shifting her gaze back up to lock eyes with the chipped vampire. "I know we've never cut you much of a break. Any really… But you are an evil vampire that's tried to kill us any number of times." She gives her head a stern shake as she loses her focus momentarily. "That isn't the point here."

"There's a point?" Spike mocks lightly.

Her glare intensifies as she growls, "I'm trying to thank you."

"Doing a bang up job of it too," he informs her with a smirk.

"Would you shut up!" She spits out. "You could've told Glory what she wanted and saved yourself from hours and hours of painful, sadistic torture that left you a bloodied and bleeding hunk of…"

"I was there love," he cuts in flicking his spent cigarette into the gutter. "Really don't need a trip down memory lane. Specially that memory."

"Fine," she snaps. Her voice like a soft, feminine rumble. "You kept our secret. Thank you."

In a quick flourish Spike produces another cigarette, lighting it in one smooth motion. "Shucks Slayer, getting all misty eye over here," he comments with just a tint of sarcasm coloring his voice. He takes a drag off his cigarette. "But you can save your thanks. Didn't do a thing for you," he informs her keeping his tone sounding indifferent.

"But…" She gawks.

He keeps his cool, ice blue eyes latched onto her as he maintains his rugged aloofness. "I was just doing what needed doing to keep good old Spike whole and hearty."

"So you let yourself get tortured?" She demands in complete disbelief.

"Obviously you don't know a whole lot about torturing someone for information pet," he says with a haughty air.

"Really?"

"First rule. Once you get the information you want and have it verified. Kill the informant." He takes another drag. "So you see, just a matter of looking after number one. Besides, I knew the lot of you blighter were coming to the rescue. Even if it were just to see me dusted before I could spill my guts. Or anything else. Lucky me blue boy showed up first." The confidence nearly bubbles out of his voice.

Buffy shakes her head not believing a word he has sprouted so far. The part about killing the informant made a kind of sense, but the rest of it is nothing more then Spike hiding who he really is, and she has the perfect way to call him on it. "Then why were you trying to reach the front door and the sun, on the other side?"

"Because I wasn't going to give that whorish fashion victim of a God the satisfaction of punching my ticket," he scoffs just before bringing his cigarette back to his mouth. "Besides you bleeding prates were taking too bloody long."

Reaching out, a warm smile lighting her eyes, Buffy's fingertips come to rest, faintly, on Spike's forearm. Almost as if she's afraid, subconsciously, of any more substantial contact. Even through the layer of leather Spike can feel her touch, her smile enough to send a jolt, very nearly like a heartbeat, coursing through his dead body. Once again making him feel alive for the briefest of instances, as only she seems able to.

"Thank you," she says in a quiet, yet forceful whisper.

For a moment Spike allows himself to become lost in her deep, expressive eyes. Hope seems to blossom, to come alive deep inside. Then he remembers who it is standing in front of him, how she despises, loathes, and detest his very existence. How she has told him so on numerous occasions, just about every chance she has. He tries his best to quash the ambers that have begun fanning themselves into flames.

Only a handful of sparks, innocently floating in the recesses of his mind escape his notice, catching flame as if in a dry grass. "Beautiful. You thanked me. Now you can bugger off and let me get about acquiring our transportation." He snarls tersely, but his tone lacks his normal venom.

"If that's the way you want it," she murmurs taken back slightly by his words.

"It is," he answers nearly having to tear his eyes out to pull them off her.

A sharp scowls descends over her features. "Fine. Just remember, something…"

"That it'll fit the whole fat arse lot of you's," he cuts in trying to shove her to the back of his thoughts instead of where she normally resides in the forefront. Dropping his forgotten and spent cigarette to the ground, he moves off leaving her to glower at his back.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"… there we were, Stephan, Jenna, and myself," Kurt says keeping Dawn's complete attention. He stops at the phone's sharp ring. Glancing at the phone he say, "be right back," and disappears with a soft pop leaving behind a cloud of sulfurous smelling smoke. A split second later he reappears by the telephone in another cloud of gray smoke.

Dawn waves her hand, coughing lightly, trying to disperse the awful smelling cloud. Kurt smiles wanly at her as he picks up the phone. "Summers' residence. Kurt Wagner speaking," he answers. His thick German accent making the words sound strange to Dawn. "No, she's not here… I don't know where she is. What is… My God!" He exclaims. Once again he vanishes in a flash of smoke.

"Kurt!" Dawn shouts, an instant sense of panic surging through her. All the blood in her body pounds away inside her skull somehow managing to keep time with her heart that is pulsating in a frenzied, staccato beat. Her breathes are coming in labored gasps. A quick bout of lightheadedness sweeps over her.

She is alone. She can't believe she is alone. Alone in her house with Glory out there, somewhere, looking for her.

Buffy is out with Spike trying to find transportation for all of them. The Buffybot, the android of her sister that Spike had built, is suppose to be here only she had excused herself earlier this morning. She had left rather abruptly giving them a stiff, "I'm not feeling well," explanation. A technical impossibility considering the fact she is a machine. Only she had been out the door before either her or Kurt had been able to say a word.

Taking a couple of deep breathes she rushes forward grabbing the handset and bringing it to her head. A desperate, "Giles," squeaking past her lips.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The large, jubilant smile slips a small, barely noticed, fraction of an inch from Tara's lips. She can't help but feel a little guilty while Dawn is trapped, worrying when a mad, disposed god is going to learn who she is, or while Buffy plans, modifies, and re-plans for every conceivable eventuality, or Giles who spends nearly twenty hours a day researching trying to find answers for questions Buffy didn't know she had yet, while she spends the day enjoying the fair, the sun, and her lover's more then pleasant company.

"What is it?" Willow inquires sensing Tara's discomfort. Squeezing her hand tighter she edges closer moving into Tara's personal space.

The blonde shrugs in response to the question. "I just feel like we're shirking our responsibilities by being here. I mean everyone else is doing… Things. Working. Preparing for Glory while we're…" She shrugs again gesturing around them at the fair grounds, people, and entertainment.

Willow leans in even closer, a subtle sigh escaping. "I know," she agrees with twinge of reluctance. "Only… We know Glory is watching us, but we don't know what she knows and if she sees us altering our plans then she might realize…"

A warm creeps across Tara's face lighting her eyes with warmth. "I was there for Giles' speech," she murmurs with a soft laugh.

A light blush blooms in Willow's cheeks. "He's right through. We have to go through with our plans no matter how painful we might find it," she says with all seriousness.

Tara giggles at Willow's conviction. "I still think we should have stayed at the Magic Box. I don't really see Anya or Amanda being that big of a help to Giles."

A small, perplexed frown worms it's way across Willow's lips as she ponders Tara's last statement. She didn't see how they couldn't be a big help, together they must know most of the written languages that have cropped up over the last thousand years. Then she suddenly remembers who it is the she's thinking about and while she doesn't know Amanda that well she does know Anya. The former vengeance demon and hard work are nearly as compatible as oil and water.

"I've got an idea," she says suddenly almost having to force the enthusiasm, the exuberance into her voice. "For the rest of the day Glory and Keys and all things supernatural don't exist. We're just a young couple in love spending a beautiful spring day in each other's company," she says leaning up to plant a sweet tender kiss on Tara's lips. "Enjoying the fair, the sun, the food," she finishes between kisses. Then she pulls back saying, "just as soon as I get back from…" She looks around the fair grounds. "…what ever passes for a ladies room."

Tara leans in a little so she can whisper, "I think they're called porta-potties," with a disgusted look sweeping across her face.

"I'll be right back," Willow says closing the distance between them to capture Tara's lips with her own in a brief, loving kiss.

As Willow's heels touch the ground Tara softly murmurs, "I'll be right here. Waiting, counting the heartbeats till you return." Her voice gaining a little volume while her cheeks gain more then a little color.

Willow smiles, ducking her head slightly, embarrassed but loving the fact Tara would expose herself so much in crowd of total strangers. She turns away slowly, hesitantly, simply wanting to stay in her lover's presence.

Tara lets out a whispered sigh as she watches Willow's retreating form. Taking a step onto the green she turns and sits on the small wooden bench.

Her lips turn downward slightly. No matter what Willow says on the subject she still feels like she is slacking. Like there is something she should be doing. Buffy and Spike are out finding a car, or van, or something that will fit everyone.

Giles is continuing his research. Right down to the very last possible minute while keeping Anya and Amanda out of trouble, no mean feat in and of itself. Even Kurt and the Buffybot have something to do with babysitting Dawn. Xander is at work maintaining a normal, everyday routine that hopefully adds to the deception.

"I missed you," she says feeling a presence sit next to her taking her hand in their own. Turning her head, her warm smile turns to a gasp of horror as the blood freezes in her veins.

"Oh, this is nice. Just hanging out. Just us girls. You like that sort of thing, don't you?" Glory says mockingly. Tara begins to cry out as pain lances through her hand. "Don't," a hint of menace tinting her voice, "make a sound."

Tara gasps and whimpers, but quickly swallows the cry on her lips. Tears of pain sliding down her cheeks as she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth.

"Scream," Glory starts in an extremely friendly voice, a pleasant, almost gentle grin sits easily on her face. She casually scans the crowd. "They won't help you. I'd kill them. You know that. There's no one here that can stop me. I'll kill her, and," she swivels her head to look over the back of the bench, "and them. I'll kill him, and her and her." She laughs, a sound that borders on the psychotic. Turning her head she looks back at Tara, all traces of humor gone. "And it'll all be your fault."

Blood drips from between their fingers. Tara's breathing becomes short, erratic as the pain becomes unbearable.

"Kind of funny isn't it," Glory continues conversationally. "All these people here, and no one who can do a thing. Not a person who can help you."

Tara looks back at Glory focusing on the deranged god.

"But that's people for you. They're pretty worthless. But keys on the other hand. Keys are worth a very lot." She smiles bringing their clenched hands up to her mouth. With a look of bliss she licks some of the thick viscous liquid up. Her faces scrunches up in disgust as she spits the blood out onto the ground.

Turning back to Tara, the insane rage clear in her expression. "You lying little tramp! You're not the key, you're nothing! Just another worthless human being!"

"I didn't…"

"I hate being lied to. It makes me feel so betrayed," a thought seems to pop into her head. "Hey? You wanna make it all better?"

Fear radiates out from Tara like a physical force.

"If you tell me who the key really is… I'll let you go." Again her voice sounds reasonable. Anyone hearing her speak for the first time wouldn't believe she had been on the brink of madness just a few short seconds ago. Tara looks alarmed. Glory gives her hand another squeeze and she whimpers again as she feels more bones grind to powder. "Think about it. You think your hand hurts? Imagine what you'd feel with my fingers wiggling in your brain. It doesn't kill you. What it does… is make you feel like you're in a noisy little dark room," Glory frowns and fidgets uncomfortably as if remembering something uncomfortable, "naked and ashamed… and there are things in the dark that need to hurt you because you're bad. Little pinching things that go in your ears…"

Fresh tears begin to stream down Tara's face.

"… and crawl on the inside of your skull. And you know that if the noise and the crawling would stop. That you could remember how to get out."

She sits quietly for a moment as she ponders what she just said. As if the words are significant in some way she just can't remember. Then the moment passes as she looks back at Tara. The vagueness gone from her eyes. "But you never, ever will," she finishes darkly.

Tara cries out as Glory squeezes her hand once again.

"Who. Is. The key?"

Tara forces the tears to stop flowing as she looks Glory in the eyes and says nothing. She knows it is the last sane thing she will ever do. An act of defiance, of rebellion. For her friends -- people closer to her then her own family -- for the world there really isn't any choice. Glory can't be allowed to get her hands on Dawn.

Glory frowns, a cruel twisting of her lips as she realizes the witch isn't going to tell her what she wants to know. The rage that swells within her, she just wants to destroy everything in sight. Only she needs to send a message to the Slayer. What better message could there be. After all the girl only has so many friends. And a sister. Can't forget the sister.

"Fine. Lets get crazy," she says raising her hands.

"Guten label Damen," Kurt greets, appearing in the midst of a bluish gray haze of sulfurous smoke, startling both woman while causing a ripple of shock gasps to sweep through the crowd of onlookers. People nearby jump back at his sudden appearance.

Moving with speed born of desperation he grabs hold of Glory. A puzzled frown creases his face for a moment as the disposed god smirks at him. A look of determination replaces his previous expression and both he and Glory vanish leaving an extremely thick cloud of smoke behind.

Tara lets out a pain filled gasp as she cradles her broken hand. Suddenly the crowd begins to part with soft, hushed, and uncertain gasps.

"Out of my way!" Amanda's sharp, commanding voice orders. Tara looks up just as Amanda, sword in hand, pushes her way through the assembled mass of onlookers.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt appears high over the harbor, he didn't want to endanger anybody walking underneath by what he is going to do next, still grasping Glory's head. Three jumps to cover the distance between the fair to here, each one feeling off. It had almost been like something was trying to block his power.

Instantly he teleports upward leaving Glory standing in midair. "Not again!" She roars at the top of her lungs while she starts to plummet towards the water below.

Another flash of smoke, along with Kurt, appears twenty feet above Glory. "Enjoy your swim," he calls out as he begins to fall. With that he vanishes in another burst of smoke and displaced air.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"What happened?" Willow demands coming around the side of the bench.

"Glory…" Tara breathes out painfully.

"We have to get out of here," Amanda growls her eyes scanning the crowd.

"… thought I was the key," she continues.

Amanda looks back. ""Can you move? Walk?" She asks but her eyes convey the message that the answer better be yes.

Tara nods her answer as Willow looks around fiercely. "Where is she?" She demands in a low, menacing whisper.

"Kurt," Tara answers standing up.

As if saying his name is a summons the blue skin mutant appears in a burst of smoke. A mangled cry erupts from the crowd seeing the demon who had already spirited one woman away reappear in their midst. A moment later they disperse like a flock of quail.

"Seems like no matter how much things change they always stay the same," Kurt mumbles too softly for anyone to hear.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A mild breeze wisp through the park; stirring the grass that is almost in need of mowing. Rustling the new, spring leaves, cooling -- momentarily anyway -- people that have quite possibly been exposed to the sun's gentle warmth just a little too long. The little wind carries with it just a hint of moisture. Not enough to cause concern about inclement weather, but enough that Buffy's external sensors note the change.

Buffy frowns at that extraneous thought wondering where it came from. She didn't have sensors; internal, external, or any other kind. Her frown disappears as her lips turn upward in a slight grin as the realization that her senses: sight, touch, smell, and hearing are technically biological sensors.

Glad to have resolved that little dilemma she turns her head back up towards the sun, staring unblinkingly at the yellow ball hanging high in the sky. There is something not right about that fact, but she can't seem to put her finger on what it is. Detailed information about the sun runs through her brain. A medium-sized, type G, yellow star that is Ninety-three million, twenty-six thousand, seven hundred and twenty-four miles, or one astronomical unit, from Earth. The Greeks called it Helios while the Romans named it Sol. It is composed of approximately 92 hydrogen, 7 helium, and the other 1 is made up of a variety of other gases as well as metals made from the hydrogen via nuclear fusion which produces five million tons of pure energy every second. Its core temperature can reach upwards of twenty-two million degrees Fahrenheit while its surface stays relatively cool at just under ten thousand degrees. At four and half billion years old its nearly middle age.

"Where did that come from?" She asks herself. The confusion clear in her voice. "Willow's the science geek not me," she states matter of factly.

It's things like that that have been happening to her all day. Strings of information, bits of data flashing through her conscious like lightening streaking out of the clear blue sky with no warning. Even that thought isn't right. She doesn't know anything about information strings or data bits, transfer rates, bytes or hertz, mega, giga, or terra.

"You shouldn't stare so at the sun dear," a reed thin elderly lady, using a cane to compensate for a slight limp. Her hair is an iron shod gray while her face has more creases, lines, and wrinkles then most road maps.

"Why's that?" Buffy inquires turning to look at the old woman.

She shifts the canvass bag in her amused by the curiosity in the young woman's expression. "Because you can damage your eyes," she answers simply.

Buffy tilts her head to the side. Her main programming kicking back in. "That is correct," she responds mechanically. "Thank you for reminding me," she adds graciously. Seeing the canvass bag nestled in the old woman's arm she smiles brightly. "Please, allow me to assist you in reaching your destination."

"That's mighty kind of you," she agrees.

"Think nothing of it," Buffy answers. "A true hero must be prepared to face any challenge, big or small and offer assistance wherever it is needed." Suiting her actions to her words she deftly acquires the bags.

The woman smiles at Buffy as she murmurs, "and I take it you're a hero?"

A bright beaming grin lights up Buffy's face. "Of course," she starts. "I'm Buffy. The vampire slayer."

"That's nice dear," she replies placing her hand on Buffy's forearm.


	9. Chap 8: Paragons of Innocence Part 2

**Chapter Eight: Paragons of Innocence – Part Two**

A light layer of steam rises from the eggshell white porcelain cup etched with powder blue scripting as Anya pours the tea, first for Amanda then herself. She had been in the middle of brewing a pot when the millennium old immortal, accompanied by one blue skin, pointed eared, spade tipped tailed mutant, had returned from the hospital where Tara is presently getting her hand set in a cast.

Her and Giles had rushed over to Buffy's house as soon as they learned Dawn had been left alone, with Kurt rushing off to rescue Tara and the Buffybot's mysterious disappearance.

"It smells delicious," Amanda murmurs stirring the dark liquid and inhaling the aromatic steam.

Anya beams brightly at the praise. "Thank you. Its my own blend," she boast proudly. "A green tea abstract blended with several very rare spices." Amanda takes a tentative sip. "Don't worry it's very nutritious prompting thermogenics within the body, not that you have a problem with excessive weight or anything. Unlike nearly sixty five percent of the American population. I was thinking about running a test in the local area to find out if it has any potential in the health market."

Amanda gazes at Anya in rapt fascination as she takes another slightly longer sip out of her cup. It's a rare day when she finds someone who can rattle off, in rapid succession, a sting of sentences that make as little sense as that one did. In this one town she's found three such people, four if she wants to include Xander.

"This is really good," Amanda remarks honestly setting her cup on its saucer.

"I'm glad you like it," Anya responds. Taking a deep breath she sighs softly. "I'm sorry about your friends that were killed in Russia. But you should realize, at the time I was a demon. Devoid of a soul, morality, inhibitions. A completely amoral creature whose job, only responsibility was to fulfill wishes in as painful a manner as possible."

Amanda shakes her head as she asks, "and that's suppose to make it all right? I was just following orders. I'm sorry but that excuse lost its appeal after the Holocaust."

A small frown sweeps across Anya's face, her lips curving downward. She had thought Amanda would understand what it had been like, after all Amanda had hardly been a virtuous creature.

Amanda squeezes her eyes shut as an intense wave of tiredness sweeps over her. She can feel the world spin around her, careening off kilter for a moment. Trying to figure out what is happening is all but impossible as her brain seems to be working seven speeds slower then normal.

A woman that easily matches her for age has to have made more then her share of dubious possibly even deceitful and immoral decisions over the centuries. Anyone that has lived as long as they have has to have bargained or sacrificed their integrity and morals a few times.

Not that she actually had very many of either, as a demon or human. There isn't very much she wouldn't sacrifice to keep the people she cares about, Xander specifically and by extension -- to a much lesser degree -- the people he cares about and calls friends safe.

Forcing her eyes open Amanda tries to focus on the cup of tea sitting on the coffee table. Reaching out she grabs hold of the cup, or thought she had. The only thing in her grasp however is air. She tries again. For some reason it is very important to hold that cup, but there's three more to go along with the first shifting, sliding in and out of focus.

"For what its worth I'd much rather have you with us, but for whatever reason Buffy thinks it'll be better to forgo half our allies," Anya informs the immortal.

"Poison?" She mumbles swinging her head in a slow arc, that causes everything to tilt to a dangerous degree, to focus in on one of the many Anya's sharing the room with her.

A subtle frown appears crossing Anya's lips. "Of course not," she answers. "That would just kill you, which according to our research, because of your age, you would just get up from in a few minutes."

Amanda's goes to stand, the world whirling around her causing her to pitch forward. In a vain attempt to keep herself upright she winds up knocking the coffee table over. She lays on the floor, her breathing labored as she tries to stem off the affects of whatever Anya had given her.

"We had to use a potent sedative, then enhance it magically to insure it'll keep both you and Kurt unconscious long enough for us to make our great escape."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The wind chimes stir gently in the mild breeze that meanders its way through the backyard of the Summers' property. Their soft, melodic, erratic tones have a very soothing and calming effect on even the most wary of souls. Buffy can feel herself relaxing as soon as she steps out onto the back porch, a steaming cup of tea in each hand.

It doesn't take her but a moment to find who she's looking for, a soft crunch of a tree branch, and Kurt's harsh, guttural sounding whispers from high overhead allow her to almost instantly locate the demonic looking mutant. For a moment she wishes she spoke German just so she'd be able to understand his heartfelt mutterings.

She supposes he's probably praying, seeking guidance from God. _Must be nice to be able to put your faith in something. To believe there's something, someone out there watching over us. That everything down here has some purpose,_ she muses silently, sounding envious to herself. The only person she has ever been able to count on is herself. Other people just have too big of a tendency of letting her down, even if some of them do come through in the end.

Taking a sip from her cup of tea, completely unconcerned about the sedative since she has already taken the counter agent, she steps forward making certain that her footfalls are relatively loud. Kurt however doesn't react as he seems completely engrossed in whatever he's doing crouched up high in the tree.

"Penny for your thoughts," she calls out taking the steps down to the green grass of her back yard. With a quick roving eye she notes that the grass is going to need mowing soon. Now all she has to do is remember the name of the kid her mom always hired to mow the lawn. It should be simple. She graduated with the boy's older sister, but for the life of her she just couldn't come up with a name.

Kurt turns his head, startled by the unexpected sound of Buffy's voice. Seeing her standing below him approaching the tree he is perched in he slips his rosemary beads and cross back into his vest pocket. He's still amazed by just how similar she is to Logan. Of course a lot of the traits they have in common: the alertness, eyes never resting in one place for too long, take charge before things get out of hand attitude; are characteristics shared by almost everyone who have spent their lives under constant, unrelenting, kill or be killed, combat so take each day as it comes, conditions.

With a deft back-flip he lands on lower branch, his hands supporting him in a nearly perfect handstand. The branch bows slightly under his weight. Loosening his grip he falls backward picking up speed and momentum as he circles once, twice. At the apex of his third loop he lets go spinning high into the air before beginning his descent.

He lands with a grand flourish and a flawless straight leg bow to her. Buffy smiles at the display making a quick mental note of his casual skill, his flexibility, balance, and pinpoint precision. He may not be a match for her in speed or strength, but his agility and teleportation power would make him an extremely dangerous foe.

She grimaces slightly as she realizes she's analyzing Kurt as she would any potential enemy. Just another little benefit of being the slayer. Ruthlessly she quashes down the slayer. Kurt is a friend like Willow and Xander and Giles, Tara, Anya. She refuses to do risk assessments on her friends.

"As always, a pleasure," he tells her earnestly.

Buffy hands him a cup. "Thank you."

"Isn't that suppose to be my line?" Kurt inquires with a curious expression as he indicates the cup of tea.

"For saving Tara," Buffy answers keeping a casual eye on the coffee cup. "If not for you," she stops giving her head a mild shake. "I'd rather not think about what could've happened to her."

Kurt frowns lightly as he turns away saying, "wasn't enough though was it?"

She grabs hold of his bicep. "Hey," she snarls savagely pulling him around. "You did more then anybody else could have. More then Willow… More then I would've been able to do so don't go beating yourself up over what you didn't do."

A small shrug and Kurt breaks her grip with ease, mainly because Buffy isn't holding on that tight. He vanishes with a soft pop of displaced air leaving behind a blue gray cloud of sulfurous smelling smoke.

Buffy turns to face the porch as Kurt reappears on the sturdy railing, cup still in hand and what she takes as a disgruntle look on his rather expressive features. A sudden insight flashes through her mind as Kurt squats down. "This doesn't have anything to do with Tara does it?"

Kurt glances at her, a look of surprise in his eyes. She's as intuitive as anyone he has ever known.

"Willow told me about you and Jenny… Jenna," she corrects.

"It's none of your concern," he replies harshly.

"It is, if you're planning on going after him," she responds. Her tone taking on an air of command she normally reserves for planning sessions and combat. That easily Kurt was once again seen as a possible threat. Buffy feels a little bit of herself die as she realizes there is no way to separate herself from the slayer.

Kurt's scowl deepens with her words. "And what? I'm just suppose to let him walk free knowing what he did? Allowing him to get away with murder?"

"He'll kill you if you go after him," Buffy informs Kurt coldly.

A sad, cynical smile blooms on his lips. "Better to do nothing and live then die doing what is right?" He questions in a soft voice.

Her glare hardens feeling like she's treading across a mire. Where the ground is just waiting for her first misstep to suck her under. "He spent a hundred years in hell."

"Yet he's still walking free while Jenna remains dead."

Buffy sighs tossing her hands in the air. She turns in slow circle before coming back to face Kurt. "Fine. You go off, actually manage to kill Angel then you might as well be pulling the trigger on all the people he's destined to save."

Kurt drains the contents of the cup in a single gulp. Setting it down on the railing he drops to the ground in an smooth hop.

Buffy quickly suppresses the urge to grin seeing Kurt finish the tea. She can see that Kurt's on the edge, contemplating what she just said and that right now is the perfect time to move in for the kill. Metaphorically speaking. "He's not the same man he was when he killed Jenny. He has his soul and he feels guilt and remorse each and every day for all the atrocities he's committed since becoming a vampire. He helps people. The innocent. The weak. Those that aren't capable of saving themselves. That's who he is now."

He shakes his head looking down slightly for a quick moment. Lifting his head he locks eyes with Buffy. She can see the doubt there even before he starts speaking. "It's all very moving and elegant, but can I really expect anything different from a woman trying to save the man she love."

"Please," Buffy snorts. "You have no idea what he put me through," she continues. The raw pain still clear in her voice. "If Angelus was free I'd stake him in a heartbeat."

"Even knowing that your friend can recurse him just like she did before?" Kurt questions not bothering to keep the doubt from his tone.

Buffy opens her mouth to deny the statement only the words falter in her mouth. For whatever reason she finds it extremely hard to lie to this man despite his demonic visage. She almost feels like it would be lying to a priest with how devout he is.

"And what about Spike?" Kurt begins feeling her hesitation. "If it's your job, your duty to destroy all vampires why is it you haven't killed him? Settled accounts for all the people he's killed, and don't tell me it's because he's on a path to redemption. He reveals in the fact he is a vampire."

"He's harmless," she answers as if that had been the silliest question ever asked. "Ever since the Initiative put that chip in his head he can't lift a hand against any human. It'd be like kicking a puppy." A frown slips across her lips as she wonders what is taking the sedative so long to kick in.

"He isn't as harmless as you'd like to believe, or lead other people to believe," he replies. "I think we both know if he wants to, Spike can still cause a fair amount of carnage even with that chip in his head."

Her frown deepens as she is unable to come up with an answer. Why is it that she has never staked him. She knows in the beginning it was because he had been a lot stronger then her. That she had always been lucky to escape with her life or that the odds were so stacked in her favor that he abandoned the theater to her and her friends.

He so wanted a one on one battle with her he would forgo a lot of fights just because she wasn't alone. Funny how that never included when Angel had been with her. Then he seemed more concerned about enjoying himself, concentrating more on Angel then her. Which she finds a little strange considering the fact that Angel had been his role model, his beacon, his guiding star in all things vampiric. According to Angel.

Recently their fights had turned into a kind of dance, with each probing for any weakness that could be exploited. Only that ended all too abruptly, with the intervention of Maggie Walsh and her Initiative. If not for that chip though it is more then likely one would have killed the other last year.

For some reason she finds that thought just a little too unsettling. She can't really imagine what life would have been like if the nuisance that is Spike hadn't been present last year, because while Kurt is right and while Spike revels in his vampiric lifestyle, the Big Bad isn't as evil as he would have everyone believe. The fact is once you cut through all the layers of pseudo-machismo William the Bloody is still nothing but the soft, tender hearted poet. That what people perceive to be the real Spike is just a shell that he's encased himself in for protection.

"If we help him," she begins in a quiet whisper, "he can be good," she states firmly matching Kurt stare for stare. "He might be the only vampire in history able to make that claim. Doesn't he deserve the opportunity to find out? Isn't it our responsibility to show him the way? Shove him on the path if need be?"

He runs his finger through his dark hair. "Just because a beer doesn't attack when you cross its path doesn't mean the animal is tame, just full."

With that he drops like a stone. Buffy darts forward catching him before he can come close to hitting the ground. "Thank you," she murmurs easily lifting him in her thin arms.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Somewhere over the high, clear and cloudless, blue Montana sky flies the largest, most advanced aircraft mankind has ever dreamed to put aloft. The S.H.I.E.L.D. Hellicarrier.

The size of three modern aircraft carriers it still looks like nothing more then a speck of dust to the naked eye with the altitude it cruises around the globe at. Less then two miles below the atmospheric envelope that envelopes the Earth.

Designed and built by the best, the brightest minds the world has to offer it is filled to the brim with the latest, the most advance technologies. State of the art weapons, a defense grid that will shred any attacker foolish enough to challenge it. Radar and laser tracking that surpasses everything else on the planet. Stealth technology that makes it all but invisible to anything but the naked eye. A propulsion system that has no heat emissions and no visible radar signature. Top of the line fighters, bombers, helicopters are all housed within the great beast.

And to man and crew, repair and upgrade, constantly keeping this modern testament to man's unrelenting determination, desire, drive, and resolve. The best, the brightest, the toughest soldiers, scientist, and technicians the America has to offer. Plucked from nearly every walk of life. The only qualifications being an unwavering loyalty to the American way of life. Free from the oppression, tyranny, and terrorism that seem to threaten it from all sides. Being the best, the brightest, most determine, never give up, dig your heels in, scratch and claw your way to victory.

Col. Nick Fury, a man without peer, and few equals. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s commander in chief -- answerable to only one man. Takes orders from only one man. The President of the United States of America.

He demands it of himself and he demands it of every member of S.H.I.E.L.D. Anything less simply won't be tolerated under his watch.

The training regimen is intense, constant, and never ending. Anybody that can't hack it isn't a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. for very long. Every man and woman under his command is worth a battalion of any other group of soldiers out there, including the United States Special Forces.

A slight touch of iron gray in his otherwise jet black hair barely begins to hint at his age. Just a year shy of eighty, he looks like a man in his early thirties. Just one of the many benefits received from the super soldier program he had been a part of during World War Two.

Fury still can't believe how quickly the Hellicarrier had been built. From just a glimmer in his mind's eye to actually being in the air fully staffed and completely functional.

A heavy stream of white smoke rises from the thick stub of a cigar clutched between the first two fingers of his left hand. Several of its fellow companions litter the heavy adamatium ashtray sitting on his totalitarian desk. His right eye stares unblinkingly at the hundreds of files that lay scattered haphazardly over it's surface.

The mystery contained in them. A mystery he stumbled upon shortly after the Horsemen Incident. When he had, for a very brief moment, contemplated tapping MaCleod for S.H.I.E.L.D. The man obviously had the right kind of training and attitude. Especially since he single handedly thwarted the likes of Adam Pierson a.k.a. Methos, Melvin Koren a.k.a. Kronos, Even Caspari a.k.a. Caspian, and the man know only as Silas.

Being the head of the largest International espionage organization does have it's perks. Feeding MaCleod's photo and name into the data base he expected the findings to read like a thousand other agents. A retired member of M.I.6., C.I.A., N.S.A., K.G.B., Mussad or one of a dozen other intelligence agencies heavy on the counter terrorism, hand to hand combat, demolitions, infiltration, and close quarter combat. What the computers spit out at him turned him white as a ghost.

While he had been right about M.I.6. He had missed by more then five decades. He had been an operative for the English Intelligence Service during the height of World War II. If that had been the only occurrence he could have tossed it up to clerical error or computer glitch and gone ahead with the recruitment.

Only it wasn't. Pictures dating back to the dawn of photography -- a few paintings dating back even further -- some with a caption identifying the man as Duncan MaCleod, most without. In each and every case though Duncan is easily identifiable. He has pictures of him in Russia mid eighteen hundreds, the old west, the Spanish American War, Civil War, War of a Hundred Years, World War I, Chicago during the roaring twenties, England War World II, Germany during the same time period, Russia during the Bolshevik Revolution, South America, Pennsylvania, Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia. A slew of drivers licenses since they first started being issued. His name comes up in more murder investigations and police reports then a single cop will fill out in a year. A surprising number, or maybe not considering what he's looking at, involve decapitations.

Suffice it to say this information had put the kibosh on Duncan MaCleod becoming an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and set off a disturbing series of events. Running the other four names through S.H.I.E.L.D.'s incredibly sophisticated and intricate databases. Unsurprisingly each one of them, with the exception of Pierson, had a resume longer and more colorful then MaCleod.

On Pierson there had been next to nothing. Not even a photograph every few decades. No driver license, passport, or social security number. Its almost as if the man never existed. He had obviously made an art of secrecy and seclusion.

A secondary search, on all the decapitation victims had revealed a society of people -- dating back deep into history, beholding to nothing -- who will seemingly live forever so long as their head isn't separated from their shoulders. Each decapitation leads to still more and more, over fifteen hundred and little more then three centuries.

At first, with only the two of them left, keeping tabs on them isn't very hard. Rotating men in order to keep them fresh insures that neither is aware of the surveillance they're under.

It had been the constant surveillance that led to uncovering an organization dedicated to nothing other then watching and chronicling the lives and deaths of these immortals. A specific tattoo on the wrist identifies members to each other. In almost two years they have been unable to copy it exactly so they've been stuck observing from the outside.

A piece of trivia Fury found extremely interesting is the fact Pierson has the same tattoo. He isn't sure what it means but he thinks it might have some significance.

Because they found this Council of Watchers they were also able to uncover an amazing number of these immortals. Some of them holding the most surprising positions in the world, Ambassadors, Senators, Prime Ministers, Presidential Advisors. From heads of some of the largest international corporations, to priest, monks, collectors, entrepreneurs, businessmen, vagabonds, underworld figure heads, world class assassins, and power brokers.

He isn't fool enough to believe that it had all begun three hundred year agos. It's just as far back as they could confirm. The most perplexing aspect of the entire thing is that after all his investigating he still has no idea why they kill each other. There are any number of reasons ranging from philosophical, ideological, religious, political, to economical.

He lets out a deep sigh as he glances at the last folder. The only one unopened. With his left hand he brings the smoldering stub of his cigar to his mouth as his right fingers drum upon the vanilla colored folder. He doesn't need to open the folder, he knows the contents by heart.

A man he saw die June 5, 1944 as they swept through one of the German's fortified bunkers. One in a series of interconnecting bunkers that lined more then a hundred miles of the French coast. Bunkers that would have made landing on the beaches of Normandy a slaughter, but with that stretch of fortifications neutralized the allies would gain the perfect beachhead.

He had seen the man take a full clip at point blank range. The force of the high powered German machine gun had practically cut him in half as it drove him through a small, seaside window. Granted he never saw the body as it plummeted more then a thousand feet to the rocky shores of the French coast.

Until stumbling upon MaCleod and a race of Immortals he would have thought those two conditions put together would be a recipes for a guaranteed death.

He flips open the folder. Dark, penetrating eyes stare up at him from a hard, chiseled face. The eyes of quite possibly the most deadly man he has ever come in contact with. Which is saying something considering most of the men he has been acquainted with in his life.

He can still remember the first time he, Rogers, Martin, Anderson and the rest of the squad, twelve of them all together had been presented to the man at England's Royal Air Force Academy. Put on display like a dozen prize race horses. The first and as it turned out, only squad of Enhanced American Infantry. Super Soldiers as they came to be known.

Then he walks in. Jacob Marley is the name they were given. It's the only name any of them would know him by. A more obvious alias Fury can't think of, especially to anybody who has ever read Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_. In those day Marley had been the equivalent of a C.I.A. liaison. A spook. A ghost. Somebody that didn't actually exist.

They stood there still as statues. Twelve perfect male specimens, between six feet even and six feet four, two hundred pounds and two fifteen, clean shaven, proper haircuts, uniforms perfectly pressed, being stared at like sides of beef waiting for butchering by a man their complete opposite; Short -- the top of his head not even close to reaching any of their chins -- clothes rumpled -- having a lived in appearance -- hair completely unruly -- looking like he spent far too much time on a motorcycle cruising at high rates of speed without a helmet -- while his face seems to have made only a casual acquaintance with anything resembling a razor.

He still remembers the first words Marley says, muttered in a harsh growl. "This is it. I tell you I need the best your military has and your pencil pushers back in Washington send me this. A troop of girl scouts dolled up for the Winter Formal."

That had caused a stir. Angered mutterings and a sense of everyone bulging forward, straining, nearly breaking ranks to physically object to his hasty assessment. "I assure you, Mr.…" Dr. Korver begins but stops because he doesn't know the man's name.

"Marley. Jacob Marley," he replies running a casual eye over the riled soldiers.

"I assure you Mr. Marley…" he starts again.

"Jacob," he interrupts with a smirk.

Korver ignores the interruption. "That these twelve men are indeed the best that the United States has to offer. Perhaps a demonstration…"

"Demonstrations are for the unimaginative. Base has got a good chunk of woods on it," Marley announces. The hard edge to his voice drawing everyone's eyes as he shakes off his coat and several layers of shirts revealing a sleek, lean, well muscled upper body. Less then thirty seconds later his shoes and socks had been discarded. "Your objective's simple. Find me. Capture me with what you have on you right now."

"And when does this mission begin sir," he had asked.

A slow viscous grin spreads across Marley's face. "Right now," he answers. The room just seems to explode as everyone moves at once.

Fury shakes his head breaking himself out of the memory. That just wouldn't let him go. _It had taken us all night of putting our individual pieces together to figure out exactly how Marley had gotten out of that room unscathed while we, with the exception of Steve Rogers, wound up on our asses. Still, it wasn't perfect, but it was as close as we ever got it_.

Marley hadn't been as fast them and was nowhere near as strong, but he had anticipated their every movement perfectly. It felt like he was flawlessly countering every one of their attacks, flowing from one to the next until he jumped through the window with Steve hot on his heels. Only once outside he quickly lost Rogers.

It had been a bitterly cold afternoon with a pea soup thick fog laying close to the wet, muddy ground. A moderate drizzle, a mixture of rain, sleet, and hail pelted them constantly as they fanned out in a basic search pattern staying closer then they normally would because of the low visibility and lack of radios.

Tracking the man was close to impossible, he left no trace. None that they could find. It was as if the woods just accepted his presence as part of the natural order and went out of its way to accommodate him.

Baker had been the first of them to fall, just as they were entering the woods -- forest -- proper. A spring loaded frame, that if it had been meant to kill would have been loaded with wooden stakes or metal spikes.

That had been how the next three hours of their lives had went. Picked off one at a time as the temperature plummets with the sinking sun. Soon only Rogers and him had been left watching each others back. He could swear the woods had been watching him.

He was wondering how it is that the man could survive in that type of weather with no protection. Even with his increased metabolism he could still feel the cold, that the tips of his finger and toes had gone numb. He had begun wondering if this Marley might not be one of these new humans he had begun hearing about. Whispered rumors and innuendoes. People born with incredible power.

"Nick! Watch out!" Rogers' shout had come too late.

He had watch, with rising horror, as the forest just come alive right next to him. Pain, like he's never felt before explodes through his body as a nerve cluster in his lower back is hit. A second hit between his third and fourth rib on his right side quickly follows. A killing blow for most people. Marley however wasn't done. Slipping around a dull piece of hardwood slams into his chest right over his heart. He crosses his pseudo-weapon over Nick's throat.

"You're dead boy." Marley whispered slacking the sticks rounded edges downward. "Now go sit down while we finish this."

Nick had to hide the grin that threatens to pop out. If Marley thought Steve is going to be some pushover he is in for a big surprise. Out of all the super soldiers Steve Rogers is by far the best, it's why he would be the one chosen to bear the mantle of Captain America for the remainder of the war. Before he was lost to the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.

What happened next Nick still can't quite believe. The two of them traded a fast and furious flurry of strikes, punches, and kicks at a pace no ordinary human would have been able to maintain for more then a few seconds. They kept going for what seemed like hours.

Then, when it appeared Rogers had everything well in hand the little hair ball some how -- through magic or sleight of hand, Nick wasn't sure which -- put Steve on the ground gasping for air. With that he just walked away.

It wasn't until later that night that Dr. Korver informed them that Mr. Marley had selected them, that he had even been mildly impressed with their performance. They had lasted longer in his little improvised excursion then any squad that had come prior to them by two hours or better.

It was then that they were told what mission they were undertaking. Thirteen men to take out one of Hitler's most heavily fortified installations. Without it Intelligence estimated the losses at Normandy would be two, maybe even three times as high. And if there had ever been thirteen men capable of accomplishing it, it was them. Especially with the detailed blue prints Marley provided. Every square inch of the installation had been at their fingertips.

Fury flips to the next set of photo's. One taken much more recently. Four days ago at the funeral of Joyce Summers. They caught his profile in one of their shots of MaCleod and the internationally renowned Jewel thief Amanda -- with more looks and last names then the population of a mid American town.

Like everyone else that MaCleod runs into, has any kind of personal contact with, a standard search had been run on them. It wasn't very surprising when Amanda the thief came back with a profile much like Duncan's and thousands of other Immortals. She even had a few surprising acquaintances, like one of his own operatives. A former cop by the name Nick Wolfe.

Someone he'd have to keep an eye on.

Amanda's file had been sent on to Washington just like all the others. He's still in charge of surveillance on all of them while the Pentagon and the joint chiefs make up their minds on the disposition of the immortals. He knew eventually they were going to have to pick them up, begin interrogating them, find out why they do what they do.

At first glance Marley's file looks much like an immortal's, up until fifteen years ago when he simply vanished. During the height of the cold war he was part of a group operating behind the Iron Curtain. Wet works, assassination, real heavy handed black ops stuff. Operations even the president doesn't have the necessary clearance to read. At that point in time he had been going by the name Logan, or the code name Wolverine.

Then in the late seventies he quite. Just up and left the spy game. Change his name to Luc Everett, with all the proper documents, joined the LAPD, started dating a collage student by the name Joyce Renold.

It had been the beginning of nineteen eighty when for some unknown reason Luc vanished and Logan resurfaced. It didn't take him very long to hook up with one William Striker. The two of them made a formidable team for almost four years. When Logan disappeared again, not to be seen or heard from until he showed up at the Xavier school for the gifted, a mutant education and training facility. Fury couldn't imagine a more unlikely place for him to turn up in.

It hadn't been much of an intuitive leap to realize Joyce Renold is the maiden name of Joyce Summers, and about as much intelligence as it takes to realize a pair of sevens beats a pair of sixes any day of the week as it did to figure out Buffy Summers is his daughter.

Fury crushes out the stub of his cigar just before he roughly pushes his chair back with an exasperated exhalation. Very little of what he has in front of him makes any kind of cohesive sense. That Logan, as he's being called now, found out he had a daughter and that her mother just died is plausible.

That MaCleod knew the woman and he came to pay his respect is conceivable for the man, but then why did he turn around and purchase Joyce Summers' art gallery, and why does it appear that he and Amanda are preparing to settle down in Sunnydale.

Every time he thinks he's close to an answer it just leads to a dozen more questions.

Taking a deep breath he calms himself down. He knows this isn't a problem that's going to be sorted out all that quickly. The worst part is that this is only one of more then a score of situations S.H.I.E.L.D. is hovering over. Watching, waiting -- neither of which are qualities Fury has in any great supply of -- before taking action.

Still he can't help but whisper, "what the hell are you mixed up in now?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Faith slouches against the post, arms folded across her chest, an incredulous sneer plastered over her face as she watches the two men approaching her. She digs the toes of her combat boots into the pavement as she studies them.

These are suppose to be representatives of some school back in Westchester New York. Unless the class they teach is a thousand and one ways to kill a man in one point three seconds or less, neither one of them really look like teaching material. Maybe if she had a few teachers that looked like them back in school she might have found a reason to stick around a little longer.

One tall, some where around six feet. His long, dark hair pulled back in a tight tail, clean shaven, smooth checks, with a small angle giving them a lean appearance. His black trench coat hangs nearly to the ground adding a little bulk to his lean frame, it also gives the illusion of him being taller then he actually is.

Which she finds a little amusing considering the stature of his companion. A good half a foot shorter, but broader through the chest and shoulders. With a thicker, more muscular frame. His dark hair is lank, swept back. His face is covered in thick, coarse hair with heavy sideburns and mutton chops.

As far as Faith is concerned the two of them couldn't be more dissimilar if they tried. Yet watching them walk, the sureness of each step, the confidence in their gaits couldn't be more similar. Even in their differences they're alike. Each is confident with their ability to handle any situation thrown at them.

She looks around, a slight shifting of her gaze as she takes in the entire area. A smirk appears on her lips seeing how tense the guards have become since her liberators appearance.

They may not realize why their palms are suddenly wet with perspiration, or why their throats have gone dry. That rising of the hackles on the back of their necks. The feeling that every move should be made with the utmost caution because death is riding low on the whispering winds and looking for it's next victim.

They may not know it, but she does. Either of these men could be death unleashed in an instant. Of the two the shorter one is the more dangerous. Something about him that has her slayer side on edge. She's confident in her belief that she can take him, take both of them, if it came to that.

Duncan smiles, a tight curving of his lips as he takes in the dark haired brunette as he and Logan draw close. At first glance he would say there's nothing special about her, just another young woman sporting more attitude then is healthy.

Yet studying her a bit more closely there is something dangerous about her. An air of sudden explosive violence boiling, churning right below the facade of civility most people cloak themselves in. With her, like it is with Buffy, only more so actually, that cloak is more like a flimsy, translucent screen. It's in the way they hold themselves, as if they're seen, faced, the worst the world could throw at them and have walked away stronger people for it.

The highlander simply figures it must have something to do with their calling. _Most people their age simply haven't been exposed to enough of the world's harsh truths_._ The majority of those that have are normally forever tainted_. He doesn't know very many people -- young or old, man or woman, mortal or immortal, human or mutant -- that wouldn't have been jaded by the scolding, seething, oppressive weight of their reality. The war they constantly endure.

With a sharp glance at Logan he sighs silently. The man had been becoming increasingly restless. Duncan almost wants to say fidgety. As if something has him on edge. Only Logan always seems to be on the precipitous of sudden, unexpected violence. In that regard him and Buffy have a lot in common.

Faith straightens as the two men draw close, just short of being able to reach out and touch her. Her eyes cast a furtive, still appraising and highly accurate glance at the guards positioned around the perimeter. She smirks, a small shrug and a single disparaging chortle accompanying the malicious grin.

This is suppose to be the residential part of the prison. Built outside the walls to give it a sense of normalcy. Its purpose is to provide shelter to VIP's and big wigs who might suffer the inconvenience of being stranded overnight, or possibly for some of the guards who would have to make a three hour commute twice a day. Faith isn't too sure which it is, or if it might be both.

The one thing she is sure about is this section is suppose to have a minimum security presence. Yet she's seen more guards in her short time here then she'd see all day on the inside. She'd almost think Warden Liddons didn't trust her.

"You must be Faith," Duncan comments extending his hand to the brunette.

An extremely pleasant smile flashes over her face as she gazes down at his offered hand. It's a smile that unsettles Duncan down to the core of his being.

With speed that makes a striking cobra appear to be standing still Faith latches onto his extended appendage. Then as she begins exerting an ever increasing pressure she says, "if you're a teacher then I'm the right testicle on a monkey's uncle."

Duncan forces his facial expression to remain unchanged by her show of strength. "Actually I've taught a few semester on medieval warfare, weapons, armor, the technologies of the times."

Her grip tightens. Duncan can feel the pressure increasing. Logan can hear the bones grinding together.

"So much for the great reform," Logan remarks in a bitter growl. "Chuck's always been a bleeding heart. With a big old soft spot for society's unredeemable." He shakes his head. A small rueful tussle.

A small frown creeps across Faith's lips as she listens to Logan talk. Duncan she could believe is connected to the council, even if only freelance. He has the polish for it. She seriously doubts they would ever bend their stiff necks to hire the likes of Logan.

No matter how dangerous he is.

"Who the hell sent you?" She demands. A hard edge slipping into her tone. "They want me dead or they think I'm still treading on the dark side?"

"Liddons was suppose to have…" Duncan begins through gritted teeth.

Faith barks a short, sardonic laugh as she cuts in saying. "Like I'm gonna buy some story about an altruistic professor who runs a school back east who happens to knows the truth about me? Have to give whoever…"

"School's real enough," Logan growls. His words bringing her to a stop. "A place where kids, like you, can get their heads screwed on straight. Course they gotta have some intention of turning their lives around… Can't believe Buffy…"

"B," Faith gasp in a soft, almost inaudible whisper.

"…thought that'd be you," Logan finishes with a tight sneer.

Duncan watches Faith as her eyes shift through a variety of emotions in the span of just a few heartbeats. Going from wonder to incredulous to disbelieve before finally settling on suspicion. "Why the hell'd she go and do a dumb fuck thing like that?"

Her grip loosens slightly and Duncan takes the opportunity to extricate his hand. He could feel a number -- about half, or more he supposes -- of the bones in his hand grinding together where they had been broken. "What ever you've done in here has her convinced you're trying to turn your life around," he answers as he begins flexing his hand.

"I haven't done anything in here," she scoffs heatedly while noticing Duncan moving the fingers of his hand with a free and easy, non painful, motion.

"Maybe that's why," Duncan answers. "You've had the power to escape all this time yet chose not to." A touch of admiration tints his voice. He didn't know too many people, that if they had her powers, would have remained caged. It spoke volumes about the type of character she has, or more likely, trying to build.

"What the," she blurts her eye shifting back up to Duncan's face. "Just what the fuck are you?" She demands, a tiny, almost non-existent amount of concern tinting her tone.

"We'll discuss that later," Duncan answers with quickly as he senses the guards growing impatience. Little gestures, a shifting in their stances. How they hold their rifles.

"We'll talk…"

"Look," Logan growls stepping between the two of them. The last thing he expected to be doing this morning was playing peacekeeper between these two. Especially when there's something inside him that wants to do nothing but unleash his claws and carve Faith into a thousand bite size pieces.

He doesn't understand why. Most of the time urges like this one burn through him like a flash fire in a tinder box, leaving nothing but ash and soot behind. On a few, very rare occasions he just comes across, stumbles upon, the rare individual that sets a raging inferno coursing through him. Sabertooth, Spike, even Buffy to a lesser degree, and now Faith.

With a silent snarl and a furious internal struggle he buries the beast, kicking and screaming. Holding it down tooth and nail. "We're here because we need your help. Because Buffy thought…"

"Oh. So now we're back to B," Faith sneers villainously. "Her and her little Scooby group all swamped? No time to fit you in? Too busy to help you out? So send you off to fetch the second slayer?"

Duncan grabs her shoulder turning her back to face him. "They're in trouble. Their lives are under constant threat. It seems they were fool enough to believe you'd be willing to leave the past in the past."

"I'd be willing," she snarls vehemently shrugging out of Duncan's grip. "You have no idea what they did to me. How they used me and tossed me aside once the current disaster was averted."

"You're right. I have no idea and I don't particularly care about what happened in the past."

"So you think its fine for them to treat people like shit…"

"It's up to you to decide how you're going to allow people to treat you," Duncan's temper, his anger making his words come across harsher then he intended.

Faith's glare triples in intensity. "The hell would you know about it," she hisses. "Like you ever had to live in anybody else's shadow? Always second best, never good enough. Always being reminded of…" She whirls away suddenly, her fist lashing out lightly in a semi-controlled whack against the steel post she had been leaning against earlier bending it slightly. Having regained a measure of her self control she turns back around. "Just who the hell is B to you anyway?" she inquires out of curiosity.

"She's my daughter," Logan answers quietly. A touch of pride in his voice. "They're both my girls."

Faith does a quick double take, her eyes nearly going wide in stunned disbelieve. She's seen a few photographs of Hank Summers. There hadn't been a lot of them out and about at the Summers' home the few times she had been over. This however wasn't Hank. "I'm impressed. Mrs. S. was stepping out on the old man."

"Show a little respect for the dead," Duncan hisses.

At the same Logan growls. A deep rumbling in his chest.

"What?" Faith gasp not wanting to comprehend the statement she just heard. "Mrs. S. can't be…" She trails off numbly. Joyce had been the one person in Sunnydale who had actually been nice to her from the beginning. Her and little D. They were the only two people in that whole damn town she would never had hurt. True she had taken Joyce hostage that one time, but that had been purely to make sure Buffy came to her.

And yet once again she had been left out of loop, just like when she was back in good old Sunny D. Only this time she couldn't really blame anybody but herself. Still how much effort would it have taken to pick up a phone and call her, or send her a letter. A note on a post it even.

Logan stops, his right hand flying to his temple as an image explode behind his eyes. Another and another like photos shown through a slide projector. Only no slide ever came with physical sensations.

_The acidic flavor of charred wood fills his mouth, a chill wind howls off the high, always snow capped, mountain peaks north and west of them letting them know winter will be on them by the time the moon hangs full in sky a little more then two weeks away._

_A matter of some importance only if there was anybody left alive in two weeks. Aust, as the people had taken to calling him many, many seasons ago, knelt down studying the tracks left behind by the beast that has developed a taste for human flesh. A beast that prowls these forest and rolling hills hunting his people._

_Once he had a different name, but that's so long ago that he barely remembers it and none of the people alive now ever knew it. It had been given to him because when, the hunt, the battle is at its peak, when all seems lost he would be possessed, protected by the great spirits, attacking with the tenacity and ferocity of an entire wolf pack. Not stopping until his pray had been brought to ground. He would always walk away unscathed even through his clothes had been ruined._

_He seldom remembers these moments only knowing that without the food he provides his people wouldn't survive. And now something hunts them as he's hunted them in the past. It's something he isn't going to let continue unchallenged._

_Tolku touches his shoulder lightly. With his spear he gestures to the right and the movement Wolf had spotted minutes before. Formidable and dangerous as it is the cave bear isn't the beast they're tracking. Its too large first of all, primarily walks on four legs, and has too many claws not to mention thick pads on the soles of their paws._

_Still it is no reason to ignore a potential threat two hundred paces away. Especially since cave bears have never been known for their sunny personalities. More often then not they attack anything they come across during this time of year._

_Silently he slips a pair of metal bladed hand axes -- honed to an unfathomable edge -- that he had taken in his youth, on the day he had become a man._

_Alcshua, the tribe shaman, the wisest of the elders had proclaimed he would be the one to remove the yoke of oppression they lived under. That he would lead them for generations, keeping the tribes safe from the filthy, unclean demons that still corrupt this land with their presence. That his line would one day produce the greatest of warriors. That they would constantly bar the very gates hell and let nothing pass._

_And he has. Made the demons pay ten fold for every drop of the peoples blood they have ever spilt. Drove them off in a fury of blood and fire. Turned his people into a force to be reckoned with. Scavenging superior weapons from the creatures he's killed._

_Alcshua's bones have long since turned to dust while he hardly looks like he's aged a year since that fateful day. He has yet to produce an offspring that's even half the warrior he is. Tolku is the best of his generation, but even he is nothing but a pale shadow of his father, tall, lean, and long limb he is the complete opposite of Aust's shorter, more compact frame._

_Silently, with the speed of growing grass, the pair approaches the bear from up wind knowing that way he wouldn't be able to pick up their scent._

_Wolf stiffens as the wind suddenly changes direction coming from behind them. The breeze carries a putrid, fetid odor he hasn't smelt in more then dozen seasons._

_A moment later the massive bear rises to its full height. A dull roar spills out ward letting everyone know he's leaving of his own accord not because there's something around that smells worse then he does._

"_It's a trap!" Aust yells as he turns racing back up the hill. "An ambush!"_

_Just topping the crest of the small hill six creatures of varying height, but all a uniformly, pale, sickly looking, splotchy yellow skin come into sight. Short, scythe like swords are gripped in talon hands. Their bodies bob up and down as they bark out in some unknown, harsh, guttural language that's incomprehensible to human ears. With a whooping, cheering shout they break, plowing down the hill in a mad rush._

_Unleashing a roar as savage as theirs, Aust charges up the hill in an all out blitz attempting to keep their attention focused solely on him. Blades whirl in blurring circles as the blood pounds in his ears, a thundering cadence that drives him onward._

_They meet halfway up the hillside. Blades swinging, hacking, chopping striving to rend flesh from bone, separate limbs from body. Time slows down and speeds up all at once. Steel rings against steel, slices flesh, hot blood spills, flesh knits itself back together almost as fast as it had been torn open. On and on it goes._

_Some immeasurable time later, hours-seconds, Aust doesn't know. His breathing is heavy, labored but evening out quickly as the flow of blood slowly returns to normal. He stands amid a scene of carnage like few have seen before. His blades glisten with a thick, slime like green colored blood._

_Without pause he scans the area, he scents the air. His gaze narrows in on one area. "Tolku?" He whispers rushing over, ripping the nearly decapitated body off from on top of his son. "No," he yells harshly at the sight of the sword planted deep in his ribs._

"_No," he says again dropping to his knees. Louder more forceful. Rage just beginning to creep into the word. He's buried almost every child, grandchild, and great grandchild he's ever had. The reasons for the deaths are as numerous as his offspring, battle, accident, murder, disease, old age._

_Only he remains, as unchanging as the distant mountains, or the valley they're spent every winter in for as long as he can remember._

_The valley that he isn't at right now because he is off being led into an ambush. His fingers tighten painfully around the ornate hardwood handle, his knuckles whitening._

_Pushing himself back to his feet. He's at a full sprint by the time he's taken a sixth step. One thought forcing it's way to the front of his brain._

_Home._

_Nothing else matters except getting back home before anything can happen to it. Deep in his gut he knows there is no way he can get back in time to prevent the worst, but he can't just not try with everything he has to do just that. Make a journey that took three days in far less time._

_Time loses all meaning as he races towards home. The trees, lakes, meadows, waterfalls, natural wonders, splendors to draw the eye all fly by in a blur. His legs eat up the miles at a murderous pace, any other man would have fallen by the wayside, their bodies long since giving out. He simply goes on and on and on. Never slowing, never tiring, never stopping. Mile after mile goes by unseen, unnoticed._

"Jesus Christ," Faith groans following Duncan through the parking lot toward his dark blue sedan at a good clip considering the load she has slung over her shoulder in a standard fireman's carry. "He got lead shot in his fucking pockets or something?" She inquires rhetorically as she shifts Logan's, heavier then it should be, body.

"Something like that," she hears Duncan mutter from five feet in front of her.

A slight smirk plays at the corners of her lips remembering his futile attempts to pick up Logan. Then seeing the glare in his eyes when she heaved him up without a problem despite the fact she had thought he might weigh a hundred and eighty-five pounds top. She grunts lightly, more from surprise then actually effort, while lifting what must have been three pounds worth of dead weight.

She still wants to know why Logan had dropped like a sack of potatoes. There are no visible wounds on his body. For some unknown reason she suspects the cause might be magical in nature.

Duncan pulls open the back passenger side door. "Put him back here," he orders.

"Sure you wouldn't just rather toss him in the trunk?" Faith jokes lamely. More to keep herself amused.

The scolding glare returns with a bit more intensity then had been there previously. She still can't believe she's going back to Sunny D, but after Duncan had given her the low down she can't see where she has much of a choice.

Faith didn't really give a damn about what happens to B, or her lackeys, but it's Little D that has a deranged, disposed Hell god after her.

Duncan had been a bit vague on why a god would be after Dawn. Still nobody deserves to have a god wanting to rend you to pieces. Not even Xander. Especially not Little D.

So she'd wait, let B give her the scoop, and if it is some kind of set up. Then a lot of people are going to be sorry they screwed with her.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy tilts her head back slightly taking in the whole Gallery as she twirls in a small circle. There is so much of her mother's personality here that she feels like she should just be able to reach out and touch her. Grab hold of her and squeeze her tight. Almost hear her whispering that everything is going to be all right. She knows that isn't going to happen, but it doesn't stop her from dreaming a little.

"Willow and Tara have nearly completed the cloaking spell over the Gallery," Giles announces making his presence known. He dislikes having to be the one to break her revelry but they need to be on their way as quickly as possible if Buffy's plan is to have any chance of success.

"Amanda and Kurt?" She inquires leveling a hard stare on Giles.

Giles glances towards the back of the building. "Resting comfortable. Your double seems to be well suited to the task of sitter. She understands her instructions quite well."

Buffy nods saying, "good." The last thing she wants is to have something happen to Kurt or Amanda while they make good their escape. "Does anybody know why she took off this morning? That was way out of character for her."

"Willow says there was a glitch in her hardwire thing-a-ma-jig," Giles answers. "It all sounded Latin to me."

Her eyes scrunch up lightly as she looks at him. "You speak Latin."

"That's why it all sounded Latin," he replies with a completely straight face.

A tiny smile creases Buffy's lips as she gives her head a rueful shake. "Thank you," she murmurs. Her eyes stray out the large plate glass window to the Winnebago sitting in front. She still couldn't believe Spike's choice of transportation, or his explanation on why he choose it. It's going to take them three weeks just to get out of Sunnydale in that thing.

Good news is that nobody would ever think to look for her in there. Bad news is that everyone would look for Spike in there.

"You should probably get out there," Buffy says motioning with her hand, "before Xander and Spike accidentally on purpose kill each other."

A tiny grin appears on Giles face as he remarks, "and that would be such a great tragedy?"

"Yes. It would," Buffy responds quickly. A high pitch little whine carrying it's way into her words.

He ducks his head hiding the broadening smile that splits his face in two. Placing his gray fedora on his head he slips into his dessert brown trench coat. A small bell over the front door, not unlike what is at the Magic Box, chimes as Giles pulls it open.

Buffy watches him step out into the patch of sunlight with a sense that he is never going to see Sunnydale again. She knows the feeling for nothing more then her doubts and fears about her decision creeping up on her. Its only a little struggle to push them aside, bury them so they can't disturb her. What she is doing is right, it's the only chance they all have.

"You can still feel her," Dawn says in a hush, reverent voice.

Buffy nods saying, "this was hers. She put so much of herself into the Gallery that it feels like it absorb her personality."

"Do you," Dawn begins but stops swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat. "Wherever Mom's at… Do you think it's a good place. That she's safe. Happy. I guess."

"Oh," Buffy whispers wrapping her arm around her sister and giving Dawn a tight squeeze. "Of course Mom's in a good place, where she's happy and safe. She was a good person, who loved her children, and almost never said a mean word about anybody…"

"Snyder," Dawn interjects. "You should've heard some of the things she use to call him."

She smiles remembering some of Joyce's more personalized comments concerning Sunnydale High School last principle. "I'm still convinced he wasn't really human…"

"But a rat with human DNA spliced into its genetic code and force grown into humanized body," Dawn hypothesizes with an almost inhuman amount of enthusiasm.

Buffy looks at her sister, a touch of concern shining in her eyes. "Um, yeah. Something like that," she agrees even though she has no idea what that actually is. "Come on," she says tugging Dawn towards the front door. "Willow and Tara should be done in a minute and I want to enjoy some fresh air and sunshine."


	10. Chap 8: Paragons of Innocence Part 3

**Chapter Eight: Paragons of Innocence – Part Three**

Nick leans against the heavy marble post, a newspaper open wide in front of him. He does a fair imitation of feigning interest in the news print while keeping a discreet eye on the disembarking passengers, his eyes searching for one passenger in particular.

He still finds the ability to feel all of the people around him more then just a little disconcerting. It doesn't matter, that in a way, he has always had something similar. Only a cop he could pass it off as intuition, something like a sixth sense.

Now he knew it for what it was. Just another sign of how he's different from ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine-nine… Nearly everyone else on the planet. It just points out his otherness to himself, a fact he doesn't like being reminded of.

It had taken him close to nine months to pull his life back together after Amanda had shot him through the heart in that dingy, run down warehouse in Paris.

Nobody knew what had happened to him. No doctors had announced him dead. No paper work had been filled out.

Still there had been adjustments that he had needed to make. Training he had to have if he was going to survive for more then a few years. Training he couldn't get from Amanda.

Too much anger flowing in his veins at the time. Now, at least, he had some idea of why Amanda did what she did. It didn't really diminish the anger he feels. She should have told him, she should have asked and respected his choice no matter what it had been.

Myers had pulled some strings and gotten him an interview with Nick Fury. It wasn't much, but after vanishing for close to a year it had been more then he hoped for. He still had to impress a rather stoic, unflappable Colonel whose exploits during, and since, World War Two are nearly mythic in scope.

The interview had proceeded with an atmosphere more suited for a couple of old war buddies getting together for drinks in a local watering hole with every intention of telling lies about the girls they had known and the trouble they caused when they had still been able to cause trouble. Fury had asked all the right questions and while the answers seemed to satisfy the Colonel, Nick had the impression Fury was waiting for something else.

Typical paranoia for the intelligence industry he had thought at the time.

Now he wasn't so sure.

On the sly he had been using S.H.I.E.L.D. to track down Amanda. She is one of the most internationally renowned thieves in the world. If ever there had been somebody S.H.I.E.L.D. should be keeping tabs on it was her.

Only all his searches came back empty. A part of him prays that she was okay. That she just cloistered herself away somewhere, but he was realistic enough to understand that she could have been killed in some secluded location where the body may never be found or identified.

After the interview Colonel Fury had invited him to participate in several training excursions. Something he found out later that the Colonel only did when he was planning on offering someone a position within S.H.I.E.L.D. He had been determined to prove himself, and while he had kept pace with almost everyone participating in the exercise Fury had blown them all away. The man was simply phenomenal.

Since then it has either been constant work or constant training, which amounts to pretty much the same thing. Now he stands in the middle of an airport concourse, part of a six man team, waiting for the arrival of one of the most dangerous men in the free world.

Adam Pierson. Not really a name to inspire fear the world over. If the Horsemen's plan had succeeded four years ago then that could well be a horse of a different color.

With an air of indifference Nick glances at the passengers coming through the causeway. Men, women, young boys and girls, a stewardess escorting a young girl who can't be more then four, a dozen or more people passing through the lobby.

And there he is. Dark hair cut short, a lean face with shallow checks, high cheekbones set below hazel eyes that seem as old as time itself.

Then it hits him. That whirring buzz that floods his entire being, like being plunged head first into artic waters and held there until the oxygen literally explode from your chest. It comes from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. Its stronger then anything he has ever felt before, not that he has felt very many, but this is like suddenly being subjected to hearing Tchaikovsky after listening to water music or wind chimes or some other relaxing mood music.

Instinctively he concentrates focusing in the source of the quickening. His eyes scan the crowd, the disembarking passengers, the people inching to great them. A moment later his attention zeros in on Pierson just as the last member of the four horsemen's eyes lock in on him.

Nick does a quick mental inventory of his possessions just to be sure his sword is on him. As well as his state of the art, S.H.I.E.L.D. issued blaster, high powered automatic pistol, standard issue nylon thin body armor under his street clothes, specially coated -- resistant to fire, electricity, extremes of heat and cold -- duster.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"What is it?" Joe asks recognizing the look of one immortal sensing another. "Anybody you know?" He inquires following Methos' gaze.

"Nobody I've ever met before," he replies absently.

"Nick Wolfe," Joe mutter incredulously. Amanda had sworn to him the designer disease Peyton had dose Nick with had been about as deadly as the common cold. That obviously Evan hadn't been as brilliant as everyone had thought. "She lied to me," he gasp in horror.

A slight smile, more of a smirk, quirks the corners of Methos' lips. "Of course she did. It's what women do, generally. Amanda in particular. She's quite good at it when she wants to be."

"You knew?" Joe demands heatedly.

Methos shrugs as he answers saying, "not until a few seconds ago. Suspected. Evan Peyton never bluffed. Not when he didn't have to anyway." He pats Joe on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "If you don't mind I think I'm going to go say hello to the esteemed Mr. Wolfe."

He starts walking towards Nick. His grin widens as he approaches the young immortal, a look of mild shock on his face. He finds it amusing, the reaction most youngsters have towards him. That gawking, nearly open mouthed gape.

Even immortals as powerful as MaCleod are stunned upon first meeting him. Unless they've happened to have come across one or two of the truly ancients that have managed to survive, down through the long years.

Throughout the centuries Methos has been extremely grateful immortals can't sense their own power. There have been a few times when it was that awe others felt feeling his quickening. They had given up before the fight even begun. All because they didn't know their own strength.

Wolfe's shock doesn't last as Methos approaches him. It was quickly replaced by an angry determination. An expression that borders on repugnant.

"Detective Wolfe," Methos begins stopping a good four feet before the young immortal. He might know everything there is to about the good detective, but he doesn't know Nick Wolfe. "Or to be more precise, Special Agent Wolfe. Congratulations on the job by the way. It's an excellent match for your personality type." A condescending air settles in his voice as he makes his proclamation.

Nick's eyes narrow, focusing in on Pierson. A look of supreme concentration crosses his brow as he tries to pluck the answers he wants straight from the man's mind as if by magic, or some other means. When that tactic doesn't work he resorts to the tried and true method of talking. "How the hell do you know who I am?"

Methos' insufferable grin broadens perceptibly. "I make a point of knowing everyone that might like to mount my head on their trophy wall," he answers mildly. Then his expression turns serious. "Tell your boss to give up his witch hunt. The human race isn't ready to learn about us. You don't have to look any further then the hysteria, the mania that finding out about mutants has caused. I don't feel like spending the rest of my life avoiding another inquisition. I've done it once. Trust me, it wasn't a lot of fun back then."

Nick shakes his head feigning a confused expression as he mutters, "what the hell are you talking about?"

"If that's the way you want to play it," Methos replies with a small shrug. He turns slightly, just about to walk away when he stops and turns back. "Be sure to let Rossi know he's the best tail Fury's stuck on me so far. Very professional. Hardly even knew he was there."

This time Nick does shake his head in confusion. "What's that suppose to mean?" He question guessing a hidden message in Pierson's words.

"You're a quick lad," Methos starts off innocuously. "I'm sure you'll be able to feel your way through it given enough time."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"What the hell was that?" Rossi demands angrily getting into Wolfe's face. A light spray of spittle showering the former detective.

"Looks like he was getting all friendly with the target," Garis remarks with an acidic tone. He continues to clean his nails with a slim blade knife.

Nick steps forward forcing Rossi back his own temper simmering just under the lid. "Pierson had us made," he spits back. It hadn't taken him very much effort to figure out what Pierson had meant. There was something subtle different about the Lieutenant. He doesn't know what it is, but its there. "Me, you, you. All of us." He matches glares with Rossi. "He said you're good, just not that good."

Rossi blinks at that information. As far as he knew Pierson hadn't even glanced in his direction. "How the hell…"

"Worse," Nick cuts him off. "He knew us by name."

A series of low whistles whisper through the air. "Bastard's got a mole inside S.H.I.E.L.D." Garis curses softly.

Rossi shakes his head. "Why let us know? Why not just keep us running around…"

"Like chickens with our heads cut off," Marcels adds.

"Something's going down and he wants to rub our face in it," Rossi mumbles. "Get H.Q. on the horn. Use a land line if nothing else can get out of this town. Let Fury know Pierson's got something in the cooker. Wolfe, Garis, Marcels, Lipton. You're with me."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A clear, shimmering image -- like sunlight reflecting, refracting, off the water of clear, crystalline spring in the frigid, early morning air of the high mountain as it slowly solidifies into a thin sheet of ice -- half the size of a Cineplex theater screen hangs in the center of what can nearly be described as a throne in Glory's new palatial abode.

In the center of the image, lounging, almost insolently, on a rather plain throne, in what is the central throne room of perhaps the most infamous monarch to hold reign over any nation in history. Clad head to toe in suit of gleaming steel, that glints like polished silver in the soft light, a deep forest green cloak draped over his shoulder breaks up the bright monotony of the armor. As does the cowl pulled up to cover most of his armored head, leaving only the face plate visible.

A thousand words can be used to describe Victor Von Doom: despot, dictator, mad, brilliant, insane, genius, insatiable, driven, cruel, resourceful, just, heartless, vindictive. Most contradict each other point for point. There are however a few things about the man that cannot to denied since he wrest control of a the small, eastern European country known as Latveria -- the country of his birth -- from the domineering U.S.S.R. regime more then a quarter century ago and kept the communist forces from entering his nation with no aid from anyone. He holds onto what is his with an iron will tenacity. That he is not a man to be trifled with lightly was a well known. That those that cross him quickly and irrevocably learn the error of their ways.

The steel face plate masks the Monarch's expression. There's nothing however that can mask the dark anger lighting his eyes. Or the fear it brings out in beings, literally, on the other side of the planet. Especially as he rises to his feet, on imperious rage clearly evident in his posture. "Is there perhaps some genetic defect in the higher processing centers of your brain, one that runs throughout your entire race. A defect that would allow you and all of your kind to perceive me as some type disreputable, third rate arms merchant?" He inquires, almost sounding pleasant as he glides down the steps of his dais leading to his throne.

Murk stumbles back fearfully on Doom's first steps forward. Just until he remembers that the Latverian dictator is in fact on the opposite side of the planet. He had been ecstatic when Glory had assigned him the job of tracking down allies, soldiers, anything that she could hurl at the slayer and her cohorts. Specifically that annoying blue one with his ability to move vast distances with nothing more then a thought.

So far he's arranged for a dozen warriors including a pair Mohra's, a coup in and among itself, more then willing to fight and kill for Gloricifous cause. All just waiting for her call.

Then he had made the mistake of contacting Victor Von Doom, a task made possible because the Latverian ruler puts as much stock in alchemy and magic as he does science, physics, and chemistry and keeps a staff of witches on hand.

"My apologies most esteemed overlord if my hearty and coarse ramblings have caused you any sort anguish either physical or psychological. It wasn't my intent to insult a personage of your undoubted repute with my ill chosen words. I was merely trying to suggest that both of our interest might be best served by an alliance, because the great, magnificent, all powerful, and omnipotent Gloricifous will be returning to her home dimension leaving the key behind. I'm sure a man of your obvious genius and brilliance can see the benefits of possessing an infinite power source capable of breaching the dimensional walls as well as spanning all of time and space," Murk blurts in one long sentence without taking a single breath.

"And why, would even a god leave behind something of such power. If it can do all you say it would be of indispensable value to her," he points out academically.

"True," Murk admits. "Unfortunately the key is bound to this dimension and can't leave it."

Doom turns slightly, folding his steel encased arms across his chest. "If your Mistress is so powerful, why is it that she requires so much aid in retaining possession of her belongings?"

"Like you great Lord, the radiant Gloricifous has enemies both numerous and powerful that are attempting to prevent the most splendorous of deities from returning to her rightful place in the heavens. And as the time of ritual meant to send her home draws nigh her immense power will begin to wane, just until the ritual is complete, at which she'll return to her truly, most abundantly splenderness and is most assuredly going to remember those that stood at her side providing her the aid she required and reward them accordingly hence you receiving the key since you are imminently qualified to study it, unlocking all its vast and wondrous secrets. You, with the key in your possession, could conceivably rise to dominate this entire world." Murk finishes with a suggestive leer lighting his face.

Doom's eyes bore into the demon. Searching, probing for any lie, or half truth, or omission that the creature more then likely committed. That demon's, as a group, couldn't be trusted -- unless they happen to be dead -- had been driven into him when he had still been a young man. Much like humans. They would lie, cheat, steal, connive, swindle, and kill to get what they wanted. Again, much like a human, but without all guilt, recrimination, and remorse. Their greed is their downfall.

"Very well," Doom begins turning back to face the demon allowing the deep tone of menace to reverberate through his words. A sensation that Murk feels deep in his bones half a world away. "I shall provide your mistress with a compliment of my personal guard and one of my best Lieutenants to establish a security perimeter and take possession of the key."

With that the image vanishes with the suddenness of a light bulb exploding. "You know you can't trust him," the attractive, trim, and athletic blonde that has been standing well off screen says to Doom with a slight air of impunity. Her long, straight, sun kissed, golden hair is pulled into tight braid. The form fitting body suit she's wearing accentuates her incredibly tone body.

"Which is precisely why you, my dear, are taking command of the fifth squad. Assess the risk, determine the actual disposition of this key. What this supposed deity is truly planning to use it for. It's potential as both a source of power and harnessed as a weapon."

"And if I think this key would be better suited in your hands?" Carol Danvers questions already knowing the answer.

"Then by all means, take it." She can almost see the arrogant, self satisfied grin spread across the steel face plate. "No matter what happens however, make sure that creature doesn't survive your visit to Sunnydale."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Hungry eyes, tinted green, shining in the fading twilight, gaze at closed gallery with a fiery, insatiable desire that borders on the psychotic. There's something about the building that is driving Creed's senses insane.

He knows there are people inside, at least two. His nose tells him that much. Just as it tells him a few hours ago there had been another eight people including Logan's two whelp's and a moving corpse at the art gallery. They left taking a south east heading. Their vehicle was misfiring -- on more then one cylinder -- burning oil, and leaking coolant. Tracking them will be like finding flour in a bakery, a piece of cake.

Something about the gallery though is trying to force him to move on, telling him there was nobody inside. The problem was that only eight of ten people left. It's as if two people simply vanished. From what he has been told one of them can do exactly that, even taking other people with him, but leaves behind a distinctive odor that wasn't present in the area.

It was a mystery to the man known through out the world as Sabertooth, and Victor Creed doesn't like mysteries. His instincts, his guts, his desire for revenge against the man who played him for a fool tells him to go after Logan's get, repay the man ten fold.

Only the runt's scent had been strong at the house, throughout the town, and he didn't really see him as the type to walk away from people he has a connection with. He hadn't done it with the girl, Marie, and she wasn't family. Not flesh and blood.

Besides he's here now and a little delay would make finding them just a bit more, challenging later on.

Having made his decision Creed drops from his perch on a low hanging branch, in a tree across from the Sunnydale Art Gallery. His sudden appearance, manner of his dress, size, and general attitude do little more then illicit a slight murmur from the handful of pedestrians, minding their own business, as they walk down the sidewalk.

Victor growls menacingly while his malevolent stare sweeps across the humans that fill his field of vision. Most step lively giving him what they consider an adequate space of safety, others take, what most would consider, a more fatalistic approach and don't pay him any heed what-so-ever. For a brief moment Creed thinks about slaughtering a few, randomly, just to see how they'd react to that.

This job however wasn't paying him by the body count. There is an actual objective involved other then mayhem and chaos, though those would come later. He hopes. Its times like this that he truly misses working for the C.I.A.

Giving several people hard shoves, bumps, and a blood freezing -- I just want to rip your throat out with my teeth -- glare he makes his way across the four lane road forcing more then a few cars to slam on their brakes to keep from hitting him.

Getting into the building is easier then he thought it would be since somebody left the front door unlocked. Stepping past the threshold is like having a switch flipped on. Not only did the two missing people suddenly reappear to his enhanced senses, but the overly sweet, pungent combination of spent incense, flowery scented candles still burning, and heated oil also filled the air making him wish he was in some garbage strewn alley just so he could be away from the cloying aroma.

Stepping all the way inside he lets the door swing to behind him. Instinctively he slips into the shadows, cloaking himself in darkness. Scenting, sniffing, tasting the air he quickly sorts through all the different fragrances mixing and matching, creating a detail picture for himself, even as his eyes adjust to the thicker dark as he moves soundlessly through the buildings maze like interior.

There's a greenish, almost, but not quite lime like fragrance to the woman's scent. He's smelled it before in hundreds, if not thousands, of different people in his long life. Always the same. No variations in it's aroma, stronger in some weaker in others, but always the same scent.

He's always meant to find out why, but something more important always had a way of coming up unexpectedly. There is always some prince impatient to inherit his father's crown, fortune, and wives. That he just couldn't let nature run it's course. Unless one goes by the assumption that he is nature's natural course.

The top predator just taking what was his due.

A soft, but distinctive click proceeds the fluorescent lights overhead flickering to life bathing the large, spacious, almost cathedral like room in a warm gentle light. "Peeka-boo, I see you," Buffy taunts in a childish sing song voice. "Bet you can't see me," she adds as her eyes instantly adjust to light.

Creed growls, a deep rumble in the pit of his chest as he easily hefts the marble bust of some long dead the man, general, emperor. Aside from him and the two people in deep, slumbering sleep there is nobody else in the building. His senses would have told him otherwise.

Whirling he hurls the chunk of stone at the petite blonde standing by the light switch. She moves, just enough to avoid getting hit with a negligent, indifferent air as the marble head rips through the dry wall with alarming ease.

"Or maybe you can," Buffy mutters to herself as she glances at the wall, at the hole in the wall, with a disapproving frown. She swivels her head back to take in Creed from head to toe. Clearly unimpressed with what she sees. "The place isn't insured since the sale, so if you could kindly keep any excessive damage to a minimum it would be greatly…" Creed roars knocking the pedestal that the bust had sat on to the floor. It cracks in three pieces of varying size. "Never mind then," Buffy murmurs.

"Robot," he sneers viciously. The contempt for the machine dripping from the word. It had confounded him at first, no pulse, no respiration, no heartbeat, not even the slightest hint of perspiration. Plus the fact she smelt of vanilla, from the body wash she used and lavender from the shampoo, but it didn't mask the grit of a machine, gears meshing, grinding together. The stench of plastic, oil, grease, the hum of electricity coursing through fiber optic wires. It hadn't taken him too long to put the pieces together.

Buffy's expression becomes extremely perplexed hearing the word. She isn't the android. She sent that with Spike and the others to keep Dawn safe. She's Buffy, The Vampire Slayer, the chosen one. She faced the master twice, dying at his hands the first time only to kill him later that night. She sent Angel to hell in order to save the world, destroyed the Judge, Adam, averted an ascension.

She did all these things. Her. Buffy. Not some hunk of junk, a piece of hard wired plastic.

"I am Buffy Summers," she snarls at Creed as she takes a threatening step forward.

Creed smirks at her statement, the tiniest upturning of just one corner of his lips. Enough to reveal his thick, extended canine teeth. "The Slayer, don't make me laugh." An actual smile blossoms on his face -- giving it an even more hideous, more distorted appearance -- as a found memory plays itself out in his mind's eye. "Had myself a slayer once," his casual remark full of found remembrance.

It had been the early days of the French Indonesian War, what would later escalate into Vietnam. His assignment had been simple enough. Eliminate some rogue general with delusions of grandeur.

He had been well on his way to accomplishing said mission when some little Asian girl had come out of nowhere. That she had taken him unaware was more then a little disturbing to him. That she managed to land, what for any other human would have been a kill shot -- straight through the heart with a little wooden stick -- simply enraged him.

The battle between them had been furious, lasting from just after midnight to an hour before dawn, when she seemed to realize that nothing she did came close to slowing him down. At that point she tried to get away.

"She was so sweet," he begins softly. "Screamed for weeks while I had my way with her. By then end," his grin takes on an air of evil, of vileness not even Angelus has ever shown, "she was begging me to kill her." He inhales deeply savoring the remembered; fragrance, flavor, experience. "I wonder if a machine knows fears?"

With that he hurls himself at the android standing before him with a bestial roar. Buffy meets his charge head, using the repugnance she feels towards the man to fuel her anger. The fact he seems to get off on inflicting pain, torturing people, and -- if she understood him -- raping women simply strengthens her resolve to put an end to him once and for all.

His claim to be unstoppable fall upon deaf ears. She has brought an abrupt end to quite a few supposedly unstoppable evils in her life. He would just be the latest notch on her post.

She ducks under a swipe at her with his right hand, the long claw like nails racking the air. Her right fist slams into his solid, hard as steel abs, barely causing him to grunt and not much else. His returning back fist sends her spinning. Using the momentum to her advantage she swings her leg out, Creed easily avoids the clumsy kick jumping over her outstretch leg.

He lands with her back facing him. He instantly racks his claws downward to slice her back open, only Buffy catches his wrist. Jumping her right foot kicks backward nailing him square in the groin. Her left foot continues to rise, the heel of her black platform boot clipping him under the chin hard enough to knock him to his back.

She lands on his chest, to the satisfying crunch of bones, and uses it like a spring board flipping up and over, while still maintaining her grip on Creed's wrist, landing with her feet just to either side of his head. With a heave she lifts him from the floor as she begins to spin around.

Achieving her maximum velocity she releases the large brut sending him flying like a runaway rocket through the air. His flight stops when he hits one of the thick marble columns supporting the high ceiling. A spider web crack splinters the post where he hits. Little lines spreading outwards, upwards, and around. Creed drops to the floor a broken man.

"Guess that takes care of that," she remarks heartily a wide grin blossoming across her plasticine features. It quickly falls as Creed grunts and begins pushing himself to his feet.

At his full height he smiles at her. An evil leer. "You just might be even more fun then the last one. For a machine."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Methos turns into the Sunnydale Art Gallery parking lot. A small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "So this is the place," he says giving it the once over. "Not much too look at now is it?"

"You're not getting out of answering that easy," Joe remarks caustically as Methos pulls into a parking space. "If you knew they didn't know you were onto them why the hell did you go and let them know you knew?"

He glances over at the watcher, a tiny arch to his brow. "Do you even have the slightest idea what it is you just said?"

Joe scowls at the immortal, not really sure if he does or not, but unwilling to admit that to him. "Well?"

Cracking the driver's door he starts by saying, "it's like this. They're going to spend the next three months to three years scouring for a mole that doesn't exist giving me a little alone time and all the while I'll be getting the inside scoop on Fury's little drama."

With that he shoves his door wide and slips out leaving Joe in the car with an unsatisfied expression sitting on his face. Opening his door he sighs disgruntle as he maneuvers his legs out of the car. It's more then just a little awe inspiring, not to mention terrifying, learning the true power Methos could wield if he so desired. It gives a whole new meaning to the term of identity theft.

To think that, with only a few exceptions, every single computer is susceptible, is actually hardwired to accept a specific code giving Methos complete access, not to mention total control of the system. It does little to mollify him that the system was originally only meant for the Government and Banking computer systems. Back when the entire computer industry was in its infancy, so he could wipe out any trace of himself and access, or move, his massive fortune at a moments notice. As Methos explained it, he hadn't expected the computer explosion of the last two decades, but he wasn't about to let a gift horse, as he called it, go by the wayside.

Using his cane Joe pushes himself to his feet with a light grunt of annoyance. "You still didn't answer the question. Why?"

Methos turns back towards Joe and the car. "Maybe I did it…" _because Fury's becoming to complacent, maybe I just don't enjoy being…_

The outer wall shakes, buckling, bulging outward as something nearly burst through. A sprinkle of mortar dust falls to the ground almost like a light snow flurry.

He twists his head back around, a quizzical furrow creasing his brow as he concentrates on the buildings interior. There is something, someone -- more then one -- inside. As well as an immortal. Only their faded, washed out like something is suppressing his ability to feel them.

Turning all the way around Methos steps toward the door slowly, cautiously suspecting a trap. "Are you sure that's smart?" Methos looks back at Joe shooting him a tight glare. "You know. They make movies about situations like this," he finishes with meaning and an arch eyebrow. A dark, menacing meaning.

Methos' scowl darkens at Joe's attempt at humor. Taking another step forward he reaches into his trench coat getting a good grip on the hilt of his sword. As silent as a gentle breeze he opens the glass door, not wide enough to sound the bell, and slips inside the quickening suddenly surging through him as he crosses the threshold.

Joe frowns at Methos' actions. How cagey he's acting. Joe understands why he's left outside, but for a man who fought and served his country, being left behind, where it's safe, doesn't sit well with him. It's not in his nature to just sit on the sidelines and watch.

Awkwardly, he strides forward, his cane helping to smooth out his step. Reaching the door Methos just went through he pulls it open. Not as quietly as his predecessor, but still silent enough not to be heard.

Looking to the left, along the front wall Joe's eyes fall on a tiny blonde hair girl lying on her side, facing the wall. Her left arm bent back under her body at an odd angle. Both legs looking like it would be a long time before they would be useful again. Still she struggles to rise back to her feet.

"Shit," he mutters barely whispering the word as he hastens his step rushing to her side.

A large hand reaches out, as he passes a thick marble post, grabbing him by his jacket and coat and easily hefting him into the air. Creed roars, his fetid breath spraying Joe's face.

His eyes go wide as he stares down into a face as animalistic as it is human. Large eyes that are nearly the color of coal, canine teeth that look like they could rip a good size chuck of flesh from a body. His body in particular.

Creed roars again, this time in pain as razor sharp steel slides in one side of his gut and out the other. He drops Joe like a lead weight.

His plastic legs hit the floor giving out underneath him. "Get out of here!" Methos shouts giving everything he has to hold onto the hilt of his sword.

Joe shakes his head violently pushing himself up. "Not without her," he snarls pointing at the girl.

"She's dead!" Methos yells not being able to sense any life force from the girl lying there. "Get…"

Creed's back fist smashes into Methos' head sending him sliding the length of the floor to crash into the far wall. With a savage, blood curdling yell Creed rips the sword from his body and hurls it away. With another animalistic growl he turns back to face the watcher.

The forty-five thunders as it goes off inside the gallery. The slug slams into Creed's chest knocking him back a step. Joe smiles as Creed crouches over slightly. The smile fades as the large man straightens tossing his shoulders back.

Joe's eyes narrow at the spot he had been shot just in time to see the wound close. He knew immortals healed quickly, and the older the immortal the quicker they healed, but a bullet through the heart would still kill them. Even if it was only for half a minute or so. This beast of a man barely even blinks at the high power bullet that ripped his chest open.

"Fuck you," Joe snarls emptying the entire clip into Creed's chest. Each round driving Creed back a step. The gun clicks several times before Joe releases the trigger. Creed staggers for a brief moment before regaining his balance. Joe's eyes widen in wonder and fear and awe as he watches each wound begin to close.

A cruel smile strains Creed's features exposing a set of overlarge canine teeth. His dark eyes seem to glow with anticipation as he slowly stalks forward. "Ready to die gimp?" He asks in a voice that sends a chill down Joe's spine.

"Maybe you ought to finish what you started with me," Methos comments stepping up behind the huge brute of a man. This isn't the first time that he's come across a mutant with a healing power comparable -- superior, he supposes -- to an Immortal's. It is however the first time he has seen this one.

The last was Escta Toin Eui. The language is even older then he is. Loosely translated it means something along the lines of Winter Dragon. That had been some fifty odd years ago in the mountains of Nepal. At the time she had simply been calling herself Yuko.

He's encountered more then a dozen such mutants in his long life. Most are like the average immortal, just trying to blend in to human society and live as normal a life as possible.

A few however are truly, truly terrifying creatures. This one tops the list. In a lot of ways he reminds Methos of Kurgan, just without the sunny disposition and charming personality. An old enemy he avoided, ran, and hide from when the occasion arose.

Creed turns at the sound of Methos' voice. His grin widening as the immortal wipes blood from the corner of his mouth. "I'm gonna enjoy stringing you up with your own guts boy."

That isn't an option here. If he bolts, runs as fast as he can, it would just be signing Joe's death certificate. Not to mention Amanda's and Kurt's as well.

Probably his too.

There are times Methos really hates discovering that he does, in fact, posses a set of morals and ethics. It's at times like this that he could just kill Macleod. If he could he would wipe out the entire age of chivalry.

With an ease that Methos finds alarming and gratifying all at the same time he slips back into the persona that has allowed him to survive more then five millennium. The cunning, ruthless, vicious, willing to sacrifice whatever he has to in order to survive. Only this time he channels his energies into keeping his friends alive.

He grimaces internally wondering when Amanda got lumped into the friend category. He had always considered her more of an associate. Or perhaps an associate of an associate.

Grinning at Creed, a sneer that displays his contempt for the brute and he hopes hides his anxiety over facing him. In a voice full of indifference he says, "such a tough choice. That or my trip to the Caribbean. Probably just going to have to flip a coin, see which one fits into my schedule better."

Creed launches himself at Methos wildly. A slash of claws that the immortal just barely ducks underneath. He lashes out with his blade slicing into Creed's side then has to throw himself awkwardly away from the return slash, but doesn't see the second swipe that creases his side opening up a small gash as Creed easily follows him.

Joe quickly reloads, dropping the empty clip to the floor as the two more then human opponents come near to blurring while exchanging blows. Glancing up at them he tosses the gun aside as well. He didn't see where having the thing was going to do him much good. Aside from making a few holes in Mr. Tooth and Claw's shirt it hadn't left any lasting effect on the brute.

Plus there is absolutely no way he can carry the girl out of here and hold on to the gun at the same time. He isn't even sure if he is going to be able to move, or if moving her is even an option. Although he didn't see how leaving her were she lies is an option either.

A soft grunt of pain explodes from Methos as he staggers back. He curses himself softly for his sloppiness. He had forgotten just how smooth and fluid these mutants always seem to be. Sort of like a throwback to a more primitive, more animalistic time.

A triumphant grin slides over Creed's lips as he gazes at his nails, glistening red with the immortal's blood. He locks eyes with Methos as he licks the viscous fluid from his fingers. "Lock an exotic elixir."

Quickly pulling himself across the floor he reaches her side. "We've got to get out of here," he hisses loudly. Urgently. Grabbing hold of her shoulder he begins to pull her over asking, "can you…"

Her head lolls to the side. The plasticine flesh on the right side of her face has been torn to shreds exposing the silver, space age steel underneath. A red light flashes where her blue, plastic eye had been.

"Holy!" Joe exclaims as he jolts back with a start. His mind flashes to a seen from the original Terminator movie. His heart beats faster, his breathing becomes shallower, as images of her methodically chasing him down flash rapidly through his mind.

"I can't," she starts stopping with a sudden mechanical squawk. Her head jerks back with a tiny electrical spark. "Can't leave…" Her head jerks again. This time Joe can see the tiny blue arc of electricity. "Leave Kurt and Amanda." The last part comes out in a quick burst sounding almost normal.

"Amanda," Joe murmurs. Then like a light going off in his head it clicks. "Where is she?" He demands pulling her over, then winces seeing the stub of plastic, metal, and wire where her left arm had been.

Methos slashes at Creed's side as he circles to the right. The blade slices open a shallow cut that begins healing almost as soon as it was made. He wishes he could spare a moment to check on Joe, but he knows -- feels it deep in his very old bones -- that he is going to need every scrap of his concentration, his skill, and determination he has just to stay alive long enough for Joe to make his escape. Even thinking about his friend is putting him in jeopardy.

"Are you a friend of Amanda's?"

"Of course," Joe growls not wanting to get into the semantics of his relationship with the immortal.

A conspiratorial smile spreads across what is left of her face. It's a look that turns Joe's stomach, but he pushes it down with a ruthless determination. "Did you know she's immortal?"

"Where is she?"

"In the back room…"

Joe blinks as something alive suddenly shines in her eye.

"…Don't expect her to talk your ear off or anything," her voice sounding more normal. More human. "Not until the light goes out."

Joe's face scrunches up in incomprehension. "What the hell is that…"

"Am I dying?" She questions softly. Wonderingly. "Is this what it feels like? I can't…"

Methos hates it when he's right, especially about this. Small cuts and scratches decorate his body. Some deep enough that little beads of blood have pulled around the open flesh. There had been others, but thankfully those had healed. They had been replaced by others in relatively short order.

What he is right about is the fact that like all the others of his kind he has a very high tolerance for pain. He also seems to enjoy it just a little more then any of the others.

It's also obvious to Methos, painfully so, that he is being toyed with. That this blonde haired monster of a man is playing with him. For what reason he doesn't know, although he suspects it is nothing more complicated then him having a little bit of fun.

Joe pulls himself away from the monstrosity. His eyes search for a back room. He catches sight of Methos doing all he can to fend off the mutant killing machine, and getting cut to ribbons for his trouble. He realizes that the only thing that might keep them alive is if Amanda -- along with several battalions of U.S. Navy Seals -- join Methos as quickly as possible.

The sword feels like a hundred pounds of lead in his hands. Still Methos keeps the point held high, between him and Creed. He seriously contemplates falling on his sword, putting an end to this farce. The only thing that stays his hand is the knowledge that the longer he can hold out the better Joe's chances are.

Not that there is a great deal of difference between nil and none. A hairsbreadth at most.

His brown eyes go wide as a blue and dark gray streak comes bounding towards them. Bouncing from floor to column to column back to floor. Methos can't believe what he's seeing. Unless he is mistaken the man streaking towards him is none other then Kurt Wagner.

The last time he had seen him had been more then a quarter of a century ago, almost twenty-eight years. Kurt had been a new born, only days old. His mother had vanished hours after giving birth to him. Simply disappearing into the night.

He had only a vague idea why the woman had done what she did, not that it mattered all that much to him. It wasn't like he was capable of raising a child. His life had been chaotic enough at the time so he did the only thing he could and left Kurt with a band of Gypsies he had been acquainted with.

Creed's nostrils flare as his ears pick up the soft, nearly silent padding of bare feet slapping against the tiled floor. Rapid, but far apart like somebody leaping. The scent is unmistakable. "Time to die," he snarls. A rumbling deep in his chest. His voice reminding Methos of a starving wolf. An entire pack of starving wolves.

With that he lunges forward, his right hand grabbing the blade and pulling Methos towards him. The move is so fast that Methos can't react to it. Can't even let go of the hilt before Creed slams his claw like nails into the immortal's chest. Punching through flesh and bone as easily as paper.

Methos gasp in shock, at the excruciating pain shooting, lancing through his body. His mouth forms the perfect O as his hands slip off the hilt of his sword. The light quickly fades from his eyes.

Creed tosses him aside like a broken toy. As Methos' dead body sails one way Creed spins the other whipping the sword like a frisbee.

Kurt leaps into the air easily avoiding the deadly blade. He spins and flips, most of the movement just meant to create confusion. He lands on Creed's head using it as he would a spring board to flip up into an aerial somersault. His feet kick backward as Creed spins catching the brute in the shoulder.

The force of the blow causes the large mutant to stagger even as he lashes out. His nails slicing through the air Kurt had just occupied.

Kurt rolls as he hit's the ground. Staying low he spins around to face Sabertooth. The man is every bit as terrifying in his person as his file makes him out to be.

"Where is he?" Creed rumbles. "Where's the runt? He owes…" He roars again. More in anger then pain as another sword enters his body through his back sliding out through his stomach.

He grabs hold of the harden steel, the razor sharp metal slicing open his palm means nothing to him. Almost negligently he snaps the blade.

Amanda staggers back: shocked and amazed and horrified all at the same time. Kurt had told her the man Victor Creed, Sabertooth, has a healing factor identical -- or nearly so -- to Logan's. Only she has never seen Logan's healing factor in action and nobody had bothered to tell her that it is infinitely better then her own, or any immortal's healing ability.

Creed spins, intent on driving the broken sword blade into the blonde's pretty little head.

Desperately Kurt leaps onto his back, feet planted firmly on either side of his spine. Somehow managing to grab hold of Creed's arms by their wrist. With a mighty effort Kurt manages to hold the straining sociopath as he jerks and struggles in his bid to escape.

Amanda's sword bites into Creed's side. If anything the wound just seems to anger him all the more. Spurring him on. Pushing him even more to regain his freedom.

Feeling his grip slipping, Kurt literally digs his nails into arms with muscles like steel cables and pulls back with everything he has.

Suddenly Creed throws himself backward towards one of the thick marble columns. Kurt flips back up and over, powerful leg muscles propelling his feet into Creed's chest staggering him but not taking him off his feet.

Creed's eyes light up with murderess intent.

Kurt knows he has to get out of Creed's killing field. Vaulting backwards he teleports to a place of brief, momentary safety. Or he attempts to only nothing happens. He stays right where he had been. Almost suspended in midair.

"Argh!" He cries out as pain lances through his back from the shallow gashes Creed's claws had racked. His heavy cloth duster having saved him, momentarily at least, from a more serious wound. He lands awkwardly, he could practically feel Creed breathing down his neck.

"Leave him be!" Amanda orders stepping forward and sliding her broken blade cleanly through his ribs.

Creed roars in pain and rage. More of the later then the former. Without a glance at Amanda his left hand snaps out like a striking viper. His fingers wrap around her throat as his right hand grabs hold of the sword. With a quick twist he snaps her neck like a dry twig. "Ought of my way bitch," he growls hurling her body one way and the sword another.

"Animal," Kurt shouts savagely. His face a mask of rage making his demonic visage awe inspiring. Realistically he knows Amanda is Immortal. That she'll recover from a broken neck quicker then he would from a shallow paper cut. Still watching a friend, someone he cares for, killed so callously -- like being dismissed out of hand -- is enough to make him want to grind Creed into little pieces.

"Just you and me boy."

"I wouldn't go that far," Methos remarks casually announcing his presence as he wipes blood from his chest with his ruined shirt.

Creed shifts his gaze to take in Methos, a puzzled frown creasing his face. His nostrils flaring as he scents the air. "I killed you."

Methos tosses his shirt aside, out of their way. "Seems there's a lot of people round here who have a problem with that particular affliction."

A sickening smile spreads across Creed's face as a malicious thought pops into his head about these humans with the greenish, lime colored scent. If they are all able to come back life after being killed. There is just no telling how much enjoyment he can have with one of them. Not having to worry about killing them.

"This is going to be fun."


	11. Chap 8: Paragons of Innocence Part 4

**Chapter Eleven: Paragons of Innocence – Part Four**

The dark blue sedan races down the highway at speeds in excess of more then eighty miles an hour while the sun slowly descends towards the western horizon. Duncan finds it ironic in a way that in less then twelve hours he would be trying to beat the sun for the second time. Although the person occupying his passenger seat is of a fairer persuasion, if not disposition, then its last occupant.

He hadn't lost his original passenger, Logan had simply been relocated to the back seat where he has tossed and turned fitfully. Mumbling constantly, incoherently as far as Faith can tell.

Duncan however wasn't so sure. He recognized more then two dozen different languages. Sometimes as clear as crystal other times sounding almost incomprehensible, like he was using a dialect older then even he is use to hearing.

Faith tosses her spent cigarette out the crack. She glances over at Duncan. He had spun a rather convincing story. Convincing enough that she believes it even though he was leaving out a major chunk of the tale.

What she was having a hard time wrapping her mind around is the fact Dawn, little D, hadn't really existed. Her memories of Buffy's sister, the whole two times they met, have always been extremely vivid, especially among all the other faded, washed out recollections she would rather not have. The girl had worshipped the very ground she walked on. More because she wasn't her sister then any other reason, but as far as Faith was concerned beggars couldn't be choosers.

She's as thankful today as she had been that night that Dawn was over at a friend's house when she had taken Joyce hostage and laid her trap for Buffy. A trap she wound up snaring herself in. How had she ever thought she would be able to take over Buffy's life and not become Buffy.

For the first time she had felt loved, been needed. Wasn't looked down upon as something that needed to be scrapped from the bottom of a shoe.

It had been euphoric and at the same time it just enraged her further. She knew everything people were saying to her, they were actually saying to Buffy. She just happened to be occupying the space at that moment.

It showed her what she was never going to have: the love, friendship, affection, respect. So she had decided to take it away from them. Deny them Buffy's love.

In the end though she just couldn't stop being Buffy. Even knowing that, more then likely, Buffy would return to reclaim what was hers. What had been stolen from her.

The vampires had simply been a convenient outlet for her rage.

That fight however had taught her one very important lessen. She had always thought that of the two of them, her and Buffy, that she was the stronger. It hadn't been until she was kicking the ass of three vampires, and then herself, with such contemptuous ease that she realized just how much the tiny blonde reigned herself in.

Even during their big showdown on the eve of the Mayer's ascension, with Angel's life hanging in the balance and Buffy claiming she was there to bring her back dead or alive, preferably the former, it had been a close fight. If Buffy had just cut loose, even a little, there never would have been so much doubt about the outcome of their fight.

After spending several days in Buffy's life she can at least respect why Buffy keeps herself on such a short leash. That primal rush of adrenaline that wants to burn everything away and live in moment, in the kill was nearly undeniable.

"How long have you known sleeping beauty back there?" She asks suddenly wanting to silence the musings going on in the back of her head.

Duncan had been expecting the question, any question, for more then an hour now. Faith had been fidgeting for at least that long, not to mention the eight cigarettes she has smoked in that span. It was simply a matter of time before she began speaking. Even if it was for no other reason then to fill the silence.

"We only meet yesterday," he replies answering her question. A mischievous little smirk curves his lips upward. "Despite us traveling in the same circles for years."

Instantly Duncan realizes he made a mistake. That despite her appearance and general attitude Faith isn't nearly as stupid as she allows people to perceive her to be. In fact the girl is quite clever not to mention quick, and shrewd. As well as intelligent, and making his private little jokes about time, history, and his age -- or that of other immortals -- is a sure fire way to dig himself into hole he can't climb out of.

Like this one.

Faith's glance shoots to Logan in the back seat then back to Duncan. Neither one of them look all that old. Early thirties if she had to guess, but she gets the feeling both have been around a long, long time.

"You expect me to believe you just hopped in a car, with a guy you barely know, to pick up a girl recently released, on a technicality, from a maximum security prison for crimes she freely admits committing, to help avert an apocalypse?" The sarcasm dripping from her voice is biting to say the least. "I know it might look like I just fell off the turnip truck. What with all the hayseed in my hair," she says effecting an adequate southern drawl. "Give me a little fucking credit Mac."

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The fire burns hot in the deep, wide pit. A stiff breeze throws handfuls of amber sparks into the cool, crisp autumn air. A group of diverse individual stand around the burning woodpile casting suspicious glances at one another.

The twenty-nine deadliest men and women on the planet all in one place at the same time without a minor war breaking out is something of an unprecedented event. At one time all of these people have fought battles with each other. Wars have been waged between most since just this side of forever. Or at least that is how long it seems to everyone present.

Aust Iut Leiaitciheu stares at his fellow, he isn't sure what to call them -- Immortals, rivals, eternals, blood enemies -- with a malevolent gaze. Most of these people here he'd willingly sacrifice anything to see dead. He'd do his utmost to kill them now -- even knowing how futile it is -- if it wasn't for the truce being called. As it had long ago, when they finally managed to banish the last, the most powerful, demon lords to ever reside on this planet.

If not for that being invoked this gathering wouldn't be taking place. Or if it did, it would be a blood bath.

En Sabah Nur, as he is calling himself now -- The most powerful of them, a little too powerful as far as many of the others are concerned -- had initiated this gather. Apparently he had heard something about the return of one of the old ones. That had been enough for everyone to put aside old hatreds. None of them want to return to the old ways. None of them would.

A derisive snort pulls Aust eyes to its source, Eotcha Coirme. The large, blonde hair man whose face more resembles that of the great cats that roam the verdant savannahs of central Africa then a man. In other company he'd be considered a giant, but among a few who are truly gargantuan -- like Cio Tion Kuern, the man is built like a mastodon -- he appears short.

Not that he can say anything. Even in a crowd of average size people he stands out because of his diminutive stature.

Eotcha feels eyes upon him and turns a sharp glare onto Aust. Then flashes him a tooth filled grin, but that has always been the way with Eotcha. Brash, impulsive, and with moods that change faster then the surging waters during a flash flood.

Pretty much his complete opposite. Probably the reason they work so well together. The few times they have actually worked with each other.

"How many more humans do we need?" Zeurno demands. The edges of his composure beginning to fray. "If this threat is as great as you claim why do we wait."

"We should attack now!" An unfamiliar voice shouts from the other side of the pit.

"This is our world. We're the ones who shattered the yoke we were held under. We drove them out once and I for one am not about to let them reestablish their hold."

"The longer we wait the stronger their position becomes."

"The more humans we gather the more time we give them to build their forces. We should strike now!" Kuern shouts slamming his massive fist into a small granite out cropping shattering it into a dozen smaller fragments. "Take what fodder we have…"

"Fodder," En Sabah Nur echoes silencing the cries and shouts of agreement. As for as he is concerned it is an apt description of their human allies. "The few we have managed to bring in are barely enough to draw the attention of the threat we now face. A threat greater then any since days long past. The bastard spawn of our former masters have done the unthinkable summoning one of the true bloods back into this realm. One so powerful it is said he can kill with but a look. Humans and breeds alike, indiscriminately. Leaving behind nothing."

"Why involve the humans?" Escta Toin Eui asks. An odd note of concern, compassion lacing her voice.

Aust along with several others cast suspicious gazes in her direction. She has always been the most soft hearted of them. She is also considered the deadliest of them as well. And for good reason.

"If this demon can kill them with nothing but a look," she begins catching each person eye, "why not run a raid on their beach head."

"There is the very real possibility that its power, this Judge, will be equally effective against our kind. It seems only prudent that we give him as many targets as is humanly possible."

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"There are more things in this world other then vampires, demons, and the girls chosen to kill them." A small grin slips over his lips at the thought of what he just said. At the fact he said it with a straight face.

"Yeah," she mumbles jutting her thumb towards the back seat. "I know all about mutants."

Duncan shakes his head. A small, minute gesture. "Other then mutants as well." Concentrating on the road ahead he continues. "Immortals. Human for all intent and purpose except for the fact that we don't die."

"Really?" Faith questions skeptically.

His shoulders rise and fall indifferently. "We don't stay dead all that long. We heal instantly. Almost instantly," he amends remembering how quickly Logan heals. Now that is about as close to instantaneous as he's ever seen.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"I assure you Mr. Marley that the squad we have assembled is, in my unsolicited opinion, the absolute top of line," Aaron Grays, a reed thin pencil pusher of an aristocrat, announces definitively. A man slick enough to constitute an oil spill. At least as far as Aust, or as he's currently calling himself Jacob Marley, is concerned. So far he's heard a nearly identical speech a dozen times over the past three months.

He has yet to deliver on his promise.

Working within the restraints of modern society. With their governments, puts a major crimp in his life. He spent the last seven months crawling through, memorizing every little nock and cranny, finding all the hidden ins and outs of Germany's Atlantic wall.

Everything had been so much simpler a few thousand years ago, before the rise of Catholicism and the spread of their dogma. In the old days he would have just eradicated the Third Reich on his own, leaving the bitter taste of fear in the mouth of every Nazi.

Even if it took him a generation or two. After all, there are a lot of Nazis and patience, along with dedication and fortitude might as well be his middle name.

Grays pushes the door open for Aust to step through. "When I say those men are the best of the best, I mean they are the best."

He grunts sourly as he takes in the twelve men standing at rigid attention. All clean and polish like a set of brand new toys fresh out of their box. Grays begins rattling off names that Aust doesn't even try to catch. Of the thirteen units that the U.S. military has presented for this mission so far this one is by far the most wholesome looking bunch.

"What the hell. They come pressed into those uniforms? Ain't a damn soldier in the lot. There ain't one of them that even looks old enough to hold a razor to his face without someone else guiding the blade."

Grays narrow his eyes, his brow furrowing in consternation. "I don't…"

"For some reason that doesn't surprise me," Aust grumbles striding across the room's threshold, determined to put an end to this farce before it has a chance to get out of hand.

As he steps forward Dr. Korver, the man responsible for devoloping the super soldier serum, heads him off. The determined look on his face enough to make even Aust come to a halt.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"You're pulling my fucking leg," Faith chokes out trying, and failing miserably, to contain her laughter. Even before being called she had encountered more then her fair share of delusional quacks. Her Grandfather's degenerative muscular disease, coupled with a belief that her DNA held some kind of unique regenerative properties, that could be isolated and harnessed and used to restore him to perfect health.

Duncan pulls a small pocket knife from his pant's pocket. With his left hand he easily flips the knife open exposing the razor sharp blade. With a deft move that speaks of countless years handling a blade. He slashes it across the back of his hand wincing at the slight pain.

"Fuck," Faith murmurs casting quick, furtive glances around the car looking for something to bind the deep wound. Her eyes widen as blue lightening like sparks jump across the back of his hand right across the wound sealing it.

"Fuck," she whispers again. Only this time in disbelieve. Reaching out she wipes the blood off the back of his hand. "You weren't kidding?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The sun shines out of hazy sky, filling the air with a lazy, almost relaxed heat. Not warm enough to be considered hot, simply pleasant in the city of Venice. People hurry along the streets in the early morning hours but not really in a rush to get anywhere.

In one of the back alleys, well away from any main street and its heavy traffic, two men -- one old beyond reasoning, the other ancient beyond reckoning -- hold a heated argument in low voices.

"We have an agreement," Methos snarls shoving a hard finger into Aust's chest.

Aust brushes the offending arm out of his path as his dark, baleful glare strikes the immortal almost like a physical blow. "And if I decide to change that agreement?" He grins as the scent of fear spikes from Methos. Most people might consider a man who's been alive at least three thousand years old, but to Aust that is barely a drop in the bucket.

It isn't even like he's the oldest immortal in the world. Though they had changed quite a lot since he first encountered them shortly after the final banishments. Less then four score of them. Powerful despite the fact they carried swords and were constantly training, honing their skill.

At the time he didn't think they would harm a fly. They claim to have been spun, created from an ancient mystical power. None knew what to call it or where it came from just that they had been charged with safeguarding it from a future evil.

They had even shown it to him. A glowing green ball of pulsing light no bigger then a large man's head. He could feel the power resonating within that tiny sphere like a thousand thousand stars were contained inside.

It had been a strange experience. There had been a feeling of familiarity and the orb had begun spinning, oscillating in what he could only described as an excited manner. Like it had been happy to see him.

Sometime later their peaceful ways would change, when he wasn't sure but the next time he came across a pair they had literally been trying to take each other's head. When one did it set off an explosive series of lightening strikes that lasted for a dozen heartbeats.

Later he went back to the temple he first found them in only to find it and more then three miles of the mountain it had sat upon gone, a long deep crater in it's place. As if something just ripped it out of the ground.

A small smile lifts the corners of Methos' lips contradicting what Aust's nose is telling him. He has to give the man credit. Unlike so many people he doesn't allow his fear to rule him.

"Because your word means something to you," Methos answers. A touch of smugness coating his voice as he looks down upon Aust. "Its the only thing you value. Doing what…"

"I haven't interfered in your game," Aust growls cutting Methos off. His sneer for their game clearly evident.

Methos steps forward moving into Aust's personal space. "You've been running Immortals out of Venice for more then a decade."

Aust smiles, a vicious little smirk. "your old pal Chronos was among the first. Lucky he didn't end up in a stone sack in the bottom of the canal."

"I arranged Cassandra's escape just…"

"Arranged," Aust scoffs. "I heard about your arranged escape. Passing her to Chronos. You're fortunate I didn't go back, scatter your followers, take your heads myself."

"And you're a big enough fool to try," he responds angrily. The pair lock glares with each other for several minutes taking the other's measure.

Aust knows Methos is dangerous and deadly in a variety of ways and on so many varied levels. He's seen the man fight, watched him out think and out maneuver his opponents. Not just on a battlefield but in places of power as well, with all the political maneuvering, infighting and back stabbing that such situations entail. He has seen him maintain control of his little band all the while allowing another, a stronger, better fighter to think he had been in charge.

What Methos didn't know. What he couldn't possibly conceive is that he -- no matter how long he lives, how much he trains -- will never be a serious challenge. No immortal will.

"I knew exactly what I was doing. Knew that Chronos would take exception to my flaunting Cassandra like I was, knew he would demand to have what he thought was his. Knew that Cassandra would rather see herself dead then allow Chronos to touch her."

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"I want you to know I don't go around telling just anybody about this," Duncan says after a momentary pause.

Faith blinks at the sound of Duncan's voice. There is something so familiar about what she has just seen that she simply went blank. "Why tell me then?" She asks shrinking back away from Duncan not knowing why she felt a tremor of fear seeing what she saw.

"Because you need to know," Duncan answers taking the Sunnydale exit ramp as the sun finally sinks below the horizon casting a deep orange glow across the sky. "You deal with strange, unusual events all the time."

"Like dead people getting up and trying to kill me," Faith comments a small, whimsical grin spreading across her face.

"Something like that," Duncan agrees returning her smile. "I just don't want you thinking that's the case with Amanda or myself if we should happen to die over the next few days."

A curious expression crosses her face. She brushes a lock of her dark hair out of her eyes. "how many immortals are there?"

Duncan shrugs at the question. "I don't," he gives his head a little shake, "a hundred, a thousand. Ten thousand."

"Don't you get together? Have reunions, or something?"

A rather derisive snort explodes from Duncan's mouth. A moment later he murmurs, "We're not really the, get together in large groups, kind of people."

Faith's frown deepens. She can't even begin to imagine what it must be like to live like that. She has been alone most of her life but that hasn't even been seventeen years. She knows insanity would be her reward if she had to do the same thing, live the same way for even a couple more years let alone the centuries Duncan has.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Light flares out of the darkness directly in front of William Stryker as the heavy security door clicks behind announcing the fact that he is securely locked out of Pentagon. Like any agent with his experience he doesn't let his fear rule him. In fact he harnesses it, allowing it to fuel his determination.

Aust smiles taking in all the information his accelerated senses send him as he puffs rapidly on the end of his cigar sending up thick plumes of nearly white smoke. The way Stryker's free hand, his dominate right hand darts to the gun kept holstered at his hip. His hand stops instantly once he gets a good look at the face behind the smoke screen.

Then almost imperceptibly his hand begins inching a little closer to his fire arm. "Logan," he starts in a startled, yet jovial manner. Like an old friend dropping in out of the blue. All in order to hide his hand dipping lower. "My god it's been what… Ten years?"

"Laos. Sixty-eight," Aust responds. He inhales deeply savoring the flavor even as he loathes himself, the life he has returned to. Mostly for abandoning Joyce right now, when she is going to need him the most. The condition she was in. He just isn't ready not even after all the endless years since his last child died. Time might be able to dull some wounds, the pain of certain losses, but others are as sharp and clear and biting as ever. As the day they happened.

He just needs a few days to get his head turned around the idea. A few days to find out what Stryker is up to and put a stop to it. Then he can get back to the new life he has created for himself. After he makes one other quick stop and lets Maverick know if he ever darkens his door step again it will be for the very last time.

"Right," Stryker agrees drawing the word out as he gives a single sharp nod. "Twelve years and you don't look a damn day older." Aust blows the mouth full of smoke into Stryker's face. He coughs a couple times while trying to brush the smoke out of the air. "Thought you said you wanted a normal life?"

"Had it," he replies with an indifferent shrug. "Got bored. Now I want back in."

Stryker's eyes light up with fiery hunger that he does an adequate job of hiding. "Why come to me? Why now? Why after all this time?"

"I might not have been playing the game, but I still have more then enough contacts, most who say you're close to developing some thing huge. Only you've been having a little problem with your volunteers." He smirks broadly at Stryker's vexed expression. "You know, the fact none of them have survived the procedure."

"What do you want?" Stryker asks cautiously, but unable to wholly contain his desire.

"What do I want," Aust parrots. _Get back to the woman I love and my unborn child._ "I've lived a long time, longer then you can imagine. War is in the offing. A war like never before." He sniffs the air, tasting it. "You can just about taste it." He locks eyes with Stryker. "I want an edge. An advantage. From what's being said you have it, might have it if you can ever find someone to live through what ever it is you're doing to them. We all know I can survive anything."

"As interesting as that is, truly," he begins insincerely, "but even if I did have something that would give this… Edge you're looking for. What makes you think I'd give it to you?"

"You want Xavier dead," he offers suggestively.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Kurt puts his superior speed, agility, and quickness to good use as he bounds under Creed's slash then leaps upward as Sabretooth whirls, slashing low. His move driving him right into Methos' blade. A bare fraction of a moment later Kurt's feet slam into Creed's back forcing him forward. Methos' blade slides smoothly between Victor's ribs.

Creed instantly takes a swipe at Methos even as the old Immortal throws himself back. Kurt's tail wraps around Creed's wrist pulling him back the other way.

Methos reverses his direction lashing out at Creed's exposed back slicing open a long diagonal gash from hip to shoulder that begins healing almost as soon as it's made.

Victor smiles at the pain. A twisted grin.

With a quick move he grabs hold of Kurt's tail and whips him around. Evan as he hurls him at Methos he managed to crease Kurt's side opening up a series of shallow cuts.

He winces at the fiery pain burning along his ribs. Pushing it aside he easily avoids his Immortal ally.

Methos darts forward, spinning, sword swinging in a tight arc as he meets Creed's charge. As his sword bites into Creed's flesh he feels the mutants claws tear into his chest.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Faith shudders as they pass the, "Now Entering Sunnydale," sign. Her last time in this town had not been very endearing to her. Still it hadn't been the worst time of her life either.

Not wanting to dwell on her past Faith glances into the back seat at Buffy's father. He didn't look old enough to be Dawn's father let alone Buffy's. Unless Joyce had a thing for younger men.

Only Duncan explained the whole mutant, with a phenomenal regenerative power, thing. A power that has kept him in the prime of his life for centuries.

Faith chuckles to herself softly. Most people thought of the mutant epidemic as a recent development. _If they only knew,_ the thought tumbles aimlessly through her mind.

"Something on your mind?"

Faith gives a slight start imagining that telepathy is somehow part of the whole Immortal package. "Just wondering what it is that's put feisty here down?"

He shrugs. "It might be a side effect from the spell he had Willow cast on him."

"Did what," Faith guffaws spraying the interior of the car with a light layer of spittle. Her big, brown eyes go wide as she tries to wrap her mind around what Duncan just said. When she had been in Sunnydale before she wouldn't have trusted Willow to light a candle.

With a lighter.

"He let Willow…" She couldn't even finish the thought much less the sentence. "Lucky he didn't blow up like some Macy day balloon until he went pop."

"You don't like her very much do you?"

Faith shifts back. One little joke and Duncan is able to pick up on the fact that she does, in fact, detest Buffy's redheaded best friend. If not for her then maybe, just maybe things would have turned out different.

Better.

It's wishful thinking on her part. Things might have been different, but they wouldn't have been better. At that point in her life she had been a ticking bomb waiting for a place to go off.

More then a year in prison, with weekly visits to the prison shrink had taught her that much.

Now all she has to do is accept it. Stop blaming everyone else for her mistakes. Her decisions.

"Me and Red, we were tight. Like two peas in a pod," Faith lies like the seasoned pro she is. "She just isn't that good of a witch is all. Her spells only have a fifty percent shot of working."

"Apparently things have changed."

Faith glances into the back seat again. "Not that much," she murmurs. Reaching onto the dash she grabs her pack of cigarettes and Zippo. With one deft move flipping her lighter open and close, in the blink of an eye, she lights her cigarette somewhere between. "You think the runts ever going to wake up?" She grumbles blowing out a stream of smoke.

Without warning a hand reaches out of the back seat snatching the cigarette out of her mouth. "Hey!" Faith shouts, her hand darting forward, but stops seeing the anger seething in his eyes.

"The runts been awake," he informs her in his usual gruff voice. Inhaling deeply he savors the harsh flavor. His head feels crammed full, like it's about to burst open at the seams. Looking in the mirror he's surprised to see it isn't any larger then it had been.

"Willow's spell?" Duncan inquires.

Logan glares at the immortal as he blows out a long stream of smoke. There was way too much information flooding his brain at the moment, and he's positive he hasn't even scratched the surface of what has to be buried in there. Witnessing several hours of his life, a life that has spanned eons longer then he can imagine, isn't even a drop in the bucket as far as he is concerned.

Faith lights up another cigarette glowering at Logan. There was a sense of unease being around him. It had been there all along, but in the past few moments, ever since Logan has made his state of consciousness known, the feeling has become stronger. Like something inside of her wasn't comfortable being around Logan.

She's going to have to ask Buffy about it. See if it is just her or if it's a slayer thing. "So, that spell work for you or do we need to find you a fire hydrant or something?" She questions with a clearly antagonistic tone of voice.

Logan crunches out his spent cigarette with an easy going smirk lighting his eyes as he snorts softly. "Don't like the witch too much," he states plainly.

Her glower intensifies as she wonders how she got stuck with, not one, but two men who seem to be able to reed her like a book. Turning back in her seat she sinks down placing her feet on the dash. Taking a drag from her cigarette she decides it's time to sulk.

"Did it work?" Duncan asks as Logan slips down into the seat, his right hand rubbing at his throbbing temple. Slowly, painfully, soundlessly he nods his head. "And your memories?"

"They're here," he answers tapping his skull.

"Everything?"

Logan shrugs at the question. "It's like watching a movie through the eyes of the actor. Know what's going on. Feel everything, but like it's happening to somebody…" He stops nostrils flaring. "Coirme," he growls.

Moving with the speed of an enraged, cornered animal, Logan shoves the back door open and leaps from the speeding car. He lands hard, but rolls to his feet and is running at top speed within a few strides of touching the ground.

"Damn," Faith whistles as Duncan slams on the brakes. The tires squeal, a high pitch screech as the wheels lock up. He spins the wheel hard turning the car ninety degrees to face the four lane road Logan raced down. He presses down on the gas at the same moment he releases the brake. The tires smoke and screech and squeal as the car roars down main street. "He can move."

Duncan had to agree. He certainly is able to move. A clip that has him cruising at nearly thirty miles an hour just to keep Logan in view.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Staggering back Methos braces for the follow up blow that he anticipates. The killing strike. A second ticks by, then another, and a third. Nothing happens.

Creed ignores Methos. Instead he glares at the door, nostrils flaring as if he was expecting someone. His body tenses, breathing ragged as he prepares for something.

Even as he stumbles back, taking advantage of the unexpected respite, Methos makes sure to keep his sword held at the ready, point up, even though he knows Creed can brush past it with hardly any effort at all.

He expands his senses out as far as they'll go. More then two dozen humans, most gathered in three separate groups. Half a dozen though -- along with one Immortal -- are scattered strategically around the gallery. He can also feel Rossi's unique life force, something more then just human, out there. Obviously S.H.I.E.L.D. has no intention of leaving him alone.

He can feel MaCleod out there as well. At least he hopes it was MaCleod. There aren't that many Immortals still around as strong as Duncan. And the few that are he really doesn't want to run into right now.

Close to him, possibly riding in the same car, is another person. But like Rossi more so. A life force, an energy, that outshines everyone, everything else in the area.

He has encountered similar humans during the course of his long life, but has never pursued the matter. It hadn't concerned him. It still didn't. At least it didn't if they weren't coming to pull his fat out of the fire.

Out in front of them though is another mutant. Like Creed his life force -- while nowhere near as strong or powerful as the person with Duncan -- feels boundless. Nearly endless. Infinite.

Like Escta Toin Eui or Aust or half a dozen others.

He feels Duncan and the other person pull into the gallery parking lot. Hears the tires screeching on the pavement. At the same time the front door burst open, the glass shattering on impact. Methos curses softly seeing Aust standing there. The man hasn't changed at all in more then six hundred years.

Logan's eyes lock on Creed. A snare curling his lips as he snarls, "Sabretooth!" His longtime ally, sometime friend from ages past. The first of them to face the demon known as the Judge. The one to have most, if not all of his humanity burned out of him before the rest of them had been able to tear the beast apart. All of them had been affected to one degree or another, some even losing their lives, but Creed had been the worst.

Almost nothing of the man he had been was left. There was nothing to him but the hunt, the kill, the terror he could inspire, the pain he could inflict.

Adamatium claws spring from between his knuckles. The harsh rasp of steel sliding against steel fills the gallery.

_That's different_, Methos muses silently feeling his chest knit itself back together.

"Been looking for you runt," Creed growls.

"What are you waiting for?"

Creed shrugs. Shakes his head, his long hair swaying with the motion. Then faster then the eye can blink he moves, launching himself at Logan who rushes to meet Creed head on. The two men exchange a savage series of blows that open each other up for brief moments. The wounds begin closing almost instantly.

Creed slashes diagonally down across Logan's face spinning him around. Adamatium claws slice three furrows across Creed's stomach. He grabs Logan's right hand preventing the unbreakable metal from reaching his flesh. His other hand rips upward tearing open Logan's flesh. He slams his left fist under Creed's arm burying his claws in the large man's ribs.

Creed responds slamming his head into Logan's knocking him back a step. His left fist smashes into the side of Logan's skull dropping him to a knee.

Logan slashes upward with his right hand as he comes back to his feet. He spins back the other way slicing Creed open again.

Faith stands just inside the shattered doorway with mixture of awe and horror plastered to her face as she takes in the display of animalistic ferocity being put on in front of her. The raw, primal, fiery passionate furry that drive these two men. That they stand in the middle of the room exchanging one blood letting blow after another.

She had always thought when she let go it was the ultimate expression of rage. Watching these two though put a whole new spin on the phrase cutting loose.

At a glance she takes in the rest of the room.

From the lean, extremely defined, brown haired man with cold, calculating eyes that keeps a straight, double edge blade at the ready. She assumes he must be an Immortal, like Duncan. The dark, laced with heavy amounts of gray, haired cripple lying on the floor. The aristocratic beauty, whose stately appearance is marred only slightly by the fact she only has a bra on and is using her shirt to bind the wounds of what appears to be a blue skin, pointy tail demon with dark blue, bordering on black, hair and yellow eyes. Only her slayer sense doesn't react to him. Not a demon, but a mutant.

"B," she whispers as her eyes fall on the small heap of blond hair. She darts forward in a panic since she can't feel that singular connection she has always felt with Buffy. Their slayer connection.

Creed grabs Logan's left arm keeping him from completing his spin. With an explosive lunge forward he buries his fangs in the soft flesh of Logan's neck and shoulder.

Instinctively Logan shoves his right fist backward, driving his claws into the sensitive flesh of Creed's groin. With a painful roar the large man jerks back tearing a chunk of sinewy muscle and flesh from Logan. For a handful of moments the blood fountains from the large wound.

Creed swings Logan around as if he were a baseball bat. Slamming him, with devastating force, into one of the marble columns supporting the ceiling high overhead. A massive series of interlocking cracks spread through and around the thick post as shattered chunks of marble fall to the floor and a layer of dust fills the air.

Logan ignores the bone crushing pain lancing through his body, managing to shove it aside for the time being. He knows, from a whole host of restored memories, that he would pay for his choice later. Swinging himself around he slams the top of his foot into the side of Creed's skull.

The blow barely even staggers Creed, and he easily manages to grab hold Logan's leg with his other hand. With a heave he hurls Logan upward with enough force that he smashes through the Gallery's ceiling with ease.

His roar is cut short from razor sharp steel slicing through his back as another of these Immortal gnats crawl up out of the woodwork to make his presence felt. To try his hand against him. This one's scent is the strongest so far. Like the other man he dwarves the girl but just barely edges past his other play thing.

Duncan focuses exclusively on the fight at hand allowing nothing to distract him. Every fiber of his being, every once of his strength, his skill, his will are brought to bare on this single moment. This place, this time.

Anything else, anything less and he knows he would just be throwing his life away.

He can feel the oxygen, as his blood carries it through his body, infusing him with life. With strength. Feels himself connected with everything around him: the floor, the walls, the air, his friends, his enemy.

Feels at one with Creed as he spins around lashing out at him with his claws.

Almost sees it happening in slow motion.

There have only been a few times when he has felt this profound sense of acceptance. Of just being part of everything and letting the flow carry him where he needs to be.

He ducks under the slash sliding forward. Bringing the fight to Creed. His curved blade slicing across the mutants stomach to open him up for a short moment. Then his blade curves diagonally up his chest to his right shoulder before slashing back across his throat. Thick jets of blood spurt from what, for anyone else -- mortal or Immortal -- would have been a mortal wound.

Duncan slides back, sword poised high overhead, waiting to strike. A confident smirk turning the corners of his lips up.

His smile fades as Creed shakes his entire body looking more like some savage animal then a man. Like one of the great cats rousing itself after a long sleep. The entire time his black, baleful eyes burning into Duncan. His neck healing, the wound knitting itself back together, closing right before Duncan's eyes at phenomenal speed.

Creed shakes his body again, his wounds still healing. His eyes continue to bore into Duncan. "Ready to play now boy?" He taunts just before lunging forward.

Trying to lunge forward.

His head snaps back as Faith grabs herself a thick handful of his dirty blonde hair. She spins around his thick body, her movements nothing more then a blur to everyone watching, forearm smashing into his chest driving him to the floor with bone shattering force.

A savage, animalistic, roar from above warns Faith of the incoming mutant. She quickly rolls out of the way, barely in time to avoid getting skewered by a set of adamatium claws. All six pierce Creed's chest as Logan drives his knees into Creed's gut.

He lashes out, the pain spurring him on. His open hands slam into Logan's chest, his claws raking deep furrows in his flesh as he tosses him away. Flipping himself back to his feet Creed anticipates the attack but is still unable to defend himself from Faith.

She darts in, easily avoiding Creed's swing. Then she contemptuously swats away his rising knee. Instantly she lands a series of high impact, bone crunching punches to his chest driving him back.

Creed swings at her. A powerful right hand that Faith catches with ease. His left fist lashes out at her. Her left foot simply seems to reach out and stop his strike, then heel kicks him in the side of his face. Her foot then swings back kicking him in the opposite side of the head. Her momentum as her left foot comes down carries her right leg up in spinning wheel that connects with his head making it three kicks in well under half a second.

Her leg bends around his head at the knee as her right foot kicks his left leg out. Flexing muscles, most people don't even know they have, she flips Creed over bringing him to the floor. Somehow she manages to plant her knee in his throat then drives it forward crushing his windpipe and larynx.

Creed grabs hold of her leg, his claws tear into muscle and flesh. Hurling her away he jumps back to his feet and has to quickly leap back as a pair of razor sharp blades, already red with his blood, slice through the space he had just occupied.

Duncan and Methos work in tandem. Forcing Creed back. Not giving him the opportunity to focus on either one.

"Relax," Kurt suggest to Faith as he grabs hold of the speeding slaying while she hurtles through the air. Faith tries, but can't help jerk back slightly at Kurt's touch as he grabs hold of her. Kurt notices the slight flinch. After all he has seen it all his life and given Faith's experience with creature that look like him, it was about what he had expected.

With ease and simplicity, careening off the wall he executes a flawless mid air twisting flip, that would have made Faith empty her stomach if she had been an ordinary human, as he redirects her from what would have been a painful crash.

"Your pardon," Kurt says a little stiffly as he puts her down gently.

Faith looks over his well muscled body. She can't help the grin that slips over her lips. If it wasn't for the fact that he was blue he would definitely be what she considers hot. Even with all the primitive tattoos covering his torso.

Logan slams into Creed's side disrupting the rhythm Duncan and Methos had set. He buries his claws deep as he begins running on pure instinct.

The pair roll to the ground. Claws stabbing, gouging, ripping, tearing, slicing open flesh in an inhuman frenzy with no concern for anything except inflicting as much damage as possible on each other.

With a howl Creed manages to hurl Logan away. His throw, whether by design or accidental, sends Logan crashing into the two Immortals. The three of them go down in a tangled heap, but quickly separate regaining their feet.

Creed's already up, a sneer on his lips and a cruel, twisted twinkle in his eyes. He can't remember when the last time was that he had this much fun. Maybe it was Cambodia when he had taught that slayer all about pain. She had been a feisty one right up till the end.

Tense might be too mild of a term to describe everyone's posture as they wait for the next move to be made.

By anyone.

Creed brings his blood soaked claws to his mouth licking the fresh liquid off. "Tasty as always runt," he announces with a widening grin. "Much as I'd love to stick around… Finish playing, I'm on the clock. Don't worry though, I'll be sure to give your girls my best when I catch up with them."

A white hot, blinding rage sears through Logan at Creed's word. He knows them for what they are. Truth. Unless he can do something to stop him. With a final, lascivious smirk at everyone inside Creed explodes through the shattered door into the deepening night beyond. Logan darts through hot on his heels with Duncan not far behind.

Faith tries to follow after them but barely manages to limp to the door with her torn up leg. The pain wasn't anything she couldn't handle. It was simple the fact that the muscles were sliced open so deeply she wasn't able to push off with the leg. "Fuck," she growls punching the door casing hard enough to dislodge it the rest of the way.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Wolfe continues to watch the Gallery through his small, state of the art, binoculars from his vantage point high above. The night vision on them adjust automatically to sudden light changes. No more going blind from lightening strikes or splashing car headlights across your field of vision. At more then half a mile away he didn't have to worry about Pierson being able to sense his quickening.

He wishes he knew exactly what had taken place inside the Gallery. From he had been able to see it had almost looked like an all out war had taken place between Victor Creed, a man high on Interpol's ten most wanted list, Adam Pierson, Amanda, MaCleod, and a handful of people -- Mutants he assumes considering what they look like and what they were capable of doing -- that he doesn't recognize.

He had lost sight of Creed, MaCleod, and the short male mutant only moments after the trio had broke from the building more then half an hour ago. Not all that surprising given Creed's reputation. The man has the uncanny knack of disappearing whenever he wants.

And the other two weren't much different.

"My, my, my. Look what I spy with my little eyes," Creed's chilling voice sing songs from behind Nick.

"Fuck," Nick curses spinning around reaching for the high powered pistol holstered on his hip. Getting his first good, up close look at Creed, Nick feels a chill run through him as his blood freezes in his veins. His clothes are torn apart, nothing more then blood soaked rags.

"A little Immortal whose lost his way."

Nick's gun clears its holster in a heartbeat and he instinctively draws a bead Creed who lunges forward covering the few yards between them in the blink of an eye.

"Can't have that," Creed growls grabbing hold of Nick's forearm. He crushes the bone with ease.

Wolfe stifles the cry from the pain that shoots up his arm as the gun falls from his hand. He wasn't about to give Creed the satisfaction of screaming out in pain. Or giving up. He slams his left fist into Creed's rib and feels like he has just punch a brick wall.

"That's it boy," Creed encourages him. His right fist delivers a sharp backhand slap that send Nick reeling, but unable to fall because Creed is still holding his arm. "show me what you got."

Before Nick can do anything though Creed lifts him up, flipping him over, slamming him onto the roof below. "Better yet… Die," he orders slamming his heavy claws through his chest, sliding between ribs and tearing his heart apart.

He hadn't been able to find the slayer. Glory would just have to be satisfied with one of her allies. Some one that can be tortured endlessly with never having to worry about killing him since he'll just wake up in a little while.

Creed smiles anticipating how much enjoyment he is going to have. The slayer had her fun, but he still had to hold back to ensure she didn't die. Now that concern isn't an issue.


	12. Chap 9: Miracle Part 1

**Chapter Nine: Miracle – Part One**

A hush had fallen over the Winnebago during the long, hard hours of their journey south out of Sunnydale. The escape so far had been carried out at a snail's pace. Dragging every moment out to its longest extent, draining every once of energy out of the RV's passengers. Leaving them, for the most part, listless, fatigued, and extremely irritable with hair triggers, or some combination there of.

Spike squinted, through his dark goggles, as he stared out the small opening in the blacked out front windshield trying to force the RV to reach their destination that much faster by force of will alone. Sunrise was still more then an hour away, but he didn't see a point in taking any unnecessary chances if they could be avoided.

A crooked smirk appeared on his lips as he listened to his previous thought. His entire reputation was founded on taking unnecessary risk. From the first slayer he killed -- in one on one combat -- to throwing his lot in with the slayer and her band of buggered rejects.

Still a vampire had to know when enough was enough.

For him that came earlier when he let Giles spend a few hours behind the wheel. Getting off, and then back on, the freeway had been the adventure of a lifetime, right up there with watching paint dry, or grass grow.

Not quite as bad as having to listen to that bleeding sod Angelus go on and on about what a pitiful wretch the slayer was. How he had been the one to break her, left he so devastated she would never be able to stand up to him That he would have the run of Sunnydale. Right up to when she put a sword through his gullet and sent him to hell.

Watching the stuffy Brit transform a relatively simple K turn into something nearly as monstrous as Adam, was nearly the second worse thing he has had to endure in his hundred and twenty years of unlife.

The first being Dru leaving him.

The second being Dru leaving him.

With a quick glance in the rearview mirror he checks over the passengers in view.

On the right side of the RV, with the captain's chair swiveled around to face the opposite corner in the back, Dawn sat, her knees drawn up to her chest, engrossed in one of the books she brought with her. Harry Sodder, or some such. He didn't know, didn't really care all that much either. A story about some little prat who finds out he's a sorcerer and is sent to magic school.

Spike gives his head a scornful shake. Anyone that knows anything, knows that witches, warlocks, wizards, what have you, are either trained master to apprentice in an agreement closely resembling indenture servitude or in small cults. Not in grand old universities like Oxford or Cambridge, with professors and instructors and classmates.

A soft groan from further back draws his gaze. He can't help the small, malicious smirk that cracks his lips. He had warned all of them last night that the seafood was no good, had gone a bit rotten from being out. With the exception of Harris, everyone had listened to him and avoided the shrimp and crabmeat platters.

Now Xander laid on the fold down bed, green to the gills, with a damp cloth pressed to his forehead. He might have been all right if it wasn't for riding in the RV, motion sickness added on to a mild case of food poisoning. It was never a pretty sight.

Anya sat at the foot of the bed, facing its head. Her hands were wrapped firmly around Xander's in a grip that even Buffy would have a hard time prying loose. The same soft, but fervently whispered prayer -- more of a chant to Spike's sensitive ears -- passed her lips every few seconds.

She couldn't help herself. Xander had never been this sick before. Not even when he had the flu over the summer and he was vomiting day and night, would go from cold to hot in one heartbeat to the next. Not even when that irrelevant tribe of Indians had cursed him with an entire host of diseases.

Anya lifts her head slightly, her gaze shifting from Xander to his best friend Willow. "It would only be a small curse." She began quickly, earnestly with the hope that Willow will find her knew demeanor infectious and agree to her plan.

Willow looked up from across the RV, using a finger to mark her spot in the thin spine text she was currently reading. Still trying to find the reason why the Buffybot had ignored her programming and gone off on her own had Willow researching the spell once again. The act went against every single one of her directives. It should have been impossible for her to just wonder away after receiving a direct order, but she had done it.

The only thing that made sense was that the spell had done more then just duplicated and then spliced a fraction of Buffy's essence onto the machine. She couldn't think of anything else that could cause the sort of system wide failure the bot had experienced yesterday. She wasn't positive though, and the fact it had gone offline last night, and hadn't come back online, wasn't encouraging. A fact she was keeping from Buffy. Her friend had enough to worry about without adding what was, probably nothing more then a technical glitch to the list.

Her other hand continued to stroke Tara's long blonde tresses as the older girl's head rest on her lover's leg while she remained curled up on the bench. The powerful pain killers having done their work just a little too well.

"Just a little something to let them know they can't go around indiscriminately poisoning people," she pressed despite the red head's stern gaze.

Spike's snort of laughter cuts through the silence with the subtlety of a sledge hammer.

"Something you want to say Spike?" Willow asked the vampire. Her tone of voice making it quite clear as to where she stands on his presence with them. Not for the first time she wished she could see his reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Must be eating you up inside," Spike starts off. He couldn't help the taunting quality of his tone. Buffy had made it clear to everyone that he was staying and they all hated it. Hated him. "That when it's all said and done, slayer trust me to keep the bit safe… Much as she does you."

Willow's glare intensified on the back of the captain's chair Spike was occupying. It would be such a simple incantation and no more annoying vampire. Only Buffy was right and Spike was needed. Still it didn't mean she had to be nice to him.

"The only reason you're here Spike is because Buffy doesn't have to worry if you got hurt… Killed," she adds with a slight smile. "Face it Spike, you're just cannon fodder."

"Against the likes of Glory, who isn't?"

Willow freezes as she realized Spike was right. Even with all her power, she's still nothing but a stop gap, a speed bump in Glory's path.

"Can you guys please stop it?" Dawn pleaded softly. Her voice coming out sounding like the despairing wail of a small child. People were going to get hurt when Glory finally came after her, Tara already had been. People were going to die.

And it was all her fault.

She knew that, even if nobody said it out loud, and that was tearing her up inside. What she didn't need, didn't want, were the people she cared about the most doing Glory's job for her.

Willow swallowed the retort she had been about to hurl back at Spike. She couldn't believe she had forgotten Dawn was sitting between herself and the vampire. The girl had been so quite it was like she wasn't even there.

Spike glared menacingly at the road ahead. His knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. He mumbled something incoherently, but still loud enough to be heard.

At times he really despised himself. The reckless, brash and impulsive habits and behavior he has cultivated for more then a century. He's spent so long speaking without thinking that it has become ingrained into his nature.

Most of the time he wouldn't change that for all the slayer blood in the world. But sometimes, on those very rare occasions he wished that he could remember what it was like to be William. To be able emulate his naïve and bumbling ways.

Even if it was just so he could put Dawn at ease.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy groaned softly, grinding the her palm of her right hand into her temple. They were going to have to stop soon. One stop, for gas and food -- that had turned Xander into a heaving mass of pulp -- in almost twenty-four hours, simply wasn't going to cut it.

Everybody was on their last nerve.

And that was frayed to the breaking point if Willow sniping at Spike was any indication.

"Are you all right?" Giles inquired sincerely from his seat on the wall mounted sofa across from the tiny blonde slayer.

Buffy can hear the concern coloring his voice. She closed her eyes, nodded slowly, feeling completely drained by the events of the previous weeks.

Spike declaring his feelings for her. Her mother's surgery, recovery, and finally unexpected and untimely death. Logan's sudden appearance and even more startling revelation.

Her father. Blood of her blood. Flesh of her flesh. The man responsible for her life.

Events had spiraled out of her, or anybody else's control after that. She had quickly realized she had less and less control over what had been going on around her. That was why they had to run.

So they could regain the control they had lost.

"Fine," she murmured quietly after a moment.

Giles gave a short, sharp nod. He doesn't believe her, but he was willing to take her at her word. It wasn't like he had much of a choice. "Any idea about our destination?"

"Not San Francisco," Buffy answered as she raised her head. A faint smile tracing her lips. "That Chucky guy was right. With that Hulk thing running loose up north…" She stops letting her words hang in the air.

There wasn't any reason to finish. They had both seen the news footage of the green behemoth. The creature could demolish main battle tanks with his bare hands. Like an overgrown child throwing a tantrum.

She had enough on her plate dealing with Glory. The last thing she needed to do was add an extra helping of gargantuan beast to the mix.

Let the United States government deal with their problem and she would deal with hers.

That was her motto.

Unless she could set the Hulk up in Glory's path. Maybe, with all that raw brute strength at his disposal, he might be able to teach Glory a long over due lesson.

Giving her head a rueful shake she disregarded the idea. No matter what he is, man or monster, Glory is still a god. An insane god, but still a god.

Worst of all Glory was her problem to deal with, and no matter how tempting the idea, she couldn't simply dump her off in somebody else's lap.

"Yes, well." Giles began as he pushed his glasses back up, giving them a more secure position on his nose. Standing up in the small room he glanced back at the door leading to the RV's main section. "Be that as it may, we still need a definitive destination. Something that everyone will be able to focus on. It may keep them from each other's throats for the time being… Though I seriously doubt that."

Buffy looked at him, the surprise clear on her face.

Giles graced her with an amused smile. "You don't have to enjoy the heightened senses of a slayer to pick up on the fact that everyone… With the possible exception of Tara, which is quite understandable considering the dosage of medication she is on… Is on the ragged edge. All you have to do is spend five minutes in the same room with them."

She gave him a grin, one that he hasn't seen in a long time. One that would easily light up an entire room with how radiant it was. "You sound like we should take a vacation. Head down to Florida… A little fun in the sun. Maybe hit up Disney Land?"

"Not quite what I had in mind," he mused softly. "But…"

Seeing the look on Giles face, Buffy arched an eyebrow stopping him before he can give voice to his objection. The same objection she has been hearing since before they left Sunnydale. "Spike stays," she says softly. Her tone firm, filled with conviction.

Giles bowed his head slightly. His lips turn up in a small grin. "You remember when the Initiative captured Spike… First implanted him with that chip?"

The grin that blossomed on Buffy's face shone like a new star. "How can I forget? Spike showing up on your doorstep… Making a nuisance of himself."

With a small chuckle Giles murmured, "he was quite the pest," in agreement with Buffy's statement. After a brief moment he becomes serious again. "I once asked him if he thought he might not be destined for something… A grander purpose."

"And?" Buffy urged.

"He laughed," Giles answered simply.

The tiny blonde shook her head at her mentor. "What did you expect? He spent the last hundred years, a blood thirsty killer… Then has it all taken away. Of course he laughed. He didn't have anything."

"It's been little more then a year. What could have possibly changed in that time?" He demanded.

Buffy shrugged, a tiny raising and lowering of her shoulders. "Us? Him?" She shrugged again. "I really don't know and I don't really care. He's on our side now and that's all that matters to me right now."

"For how long?"

"He kept Dawn's secret from Glory," she reminded him with a stern gaze. "Do you really think he's going to betray us now?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A large, wooden x had been hastily constructed and then mounted on one of the many walls in Glory's palatial abode. Secured to the X, nails -- closer in size to railroad spikes -- were driven through each wrist and ankle was former detective, current Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nick Wolfe.

Pain. Agony. Excruciating. Inescapable. Never ending. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of his skin dipped in acid.

He had thought he was strong, capable of withstanding anything life could throw at him.

That was before Sabretooth.

A ragged gasp escaped Nick as a nail, sharp as any razor, sliced open the sensitive flesh along his ribs. "Looks like our boy's waking up," Creed announced to everyone in the room. His voice rasping softly.

Glory flounced up off her red velvet divan. "We're not really getting anywhere this way," she murmured twirling a few of her blonde tresses in her fingers. "He stays dead too long… Just like the rest of the putrid bags of flesh, he isn't very talkative in that condition."

His thick mane of dirty blonde hair sways side to side as Creed gave his head a feral shake. "Two at the gallery didn't take nowhere near as long to recover." A sharp jab to Wolfe's gut punches a deep hole into Nick's abs starting a fresh stream of blood flowing. "Course their scents were a hell of a lot stronger."

Glory lets out an explosive yet despondent breath from where she leaned against the doorframe. After a brief pause she pushed herself off of the stained wood and walked back to stand in front of Nick. She reached out, a long nail finger lifting his jaw up. A look of pure disgust from touching his grimy, sweaty, stubble laden face. "Here's a novel idea… If you kill him half as often he'll have twice as much time to tell us what we want to know."

Nick glared at her. The hatred burning in his eyes caused Glory to smile predatorily. "Suck my left…"

Glory's fingers wrap around his throat in a vice like grip that chokes off his voice. "Choose your next word carefully," she growled in a menacing tone. Her grip tightening with each word. Her sharp nails dug into his flesh drawing little rivulets of blood. "You wouldn't want to make me angry would you? After all, pain and suffering… They are sort of my forte."

Once she finished speaking her grip loosened allowing Nick to draw in a deep breath. He shook his head angrily. Locking eyes with her he steels himself for what he's about to do. Taking a more normal breath he answered saying one word, "nut," in a deep clear voice.

Creed smiled, a slight upturning of his lips. He felt a slight touch of admiration for the man. As far as he was concerned Nick had himself a set of brass balls. _Course that might cost him one_, the large mutant mused silently laughing softly.

"Find something amusing?" Glory asked Creed without taking her eyes off Nick.

"Lots of things," Creed rumbled completely unconcerned by the threat implicit in her tone. He's been alive a long time, more then four hundred years and counting. He has faced a lot of people, creatures strong as Glory. That he was still alive and they're not is all the proof he needs that there was nothing out there that was a serious threat to him.

Glory smiles at his reply. Then, with a ruthlessness that Creed loved, her right arm streaked forward punching a hole through Nick's chest as if it were nothing but single ply tissue paper. Nick gasped at the intense pain that surged through his body, then slumped forward dead.

Again.

Extracting her blood smeared hand Glory turned her attention to Creed. "Why don't the two…"

Creed's head snaped around as his ultra sensitive hearing picked up a distinct sound approaching at incredible speed. "Something's coming," he informed her in a low growl.

A look of irritation settles over Glory's face as she glared at the back of Creed's head. She didn't hear a thing and the thought that this abomination of human genetics was capable of hearing something she couldn't infuriated her to no end.

Before she can act on her baser desires though she hears it. A low level thrum, a pitch or two below what humans are capable of hearing. There was a feeling of untapped power radiating from whatever was approaching.

Then, before anyone could react, it was overhead. The pressure from its thrusters, pushing down on everything underneath, was incredible. But, while most people -- even Creed -- struggle to stay upright and not be forced to the floor, Glory simply ignores the pressure wave as if it were nothing more inconvenient then a mild breeze.

The pressure stays constant for nearly a minute before it begins to taper off. Steadily growing duller and deeper the closer it gets to the ground until it finally reaches a pitch too low for Glory to hear.

"Someone doesn't turn that damn ship off I'm gonna use their spine for a toothpick," Creed vowed in gruff voice.

Glory shifts her gaze to the large mutant, her eyes narrowing as she began to realize just how sensitive his senses were.

Suddenly Murk burst into the room. "Oh… Your most magnificent entity. His lordship, Victor Von Doom's personal craft has landed just beyond the back terrace."

"Tell me something I don't already know," Glory snapped as she turned her gaze heavenward.

Murk opened his mouth causing Creed to smile. He was hoping the demon would make the mistake of responding to Glory's utterance. Victor was practically dieing to kill the obnoxious little demon. Murk saw the gleam of anticipation in Creed's eyes and his mouth promptly snapped shut for a brief moment. "Of course there is nothing that I could possibly tell you your radiance that you don't already know. How could I, your most splendiness? Me? Your humble servant, who without your wisdom and guid…"

"Whatever," Glory uttered with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Why don't you go do something useful. Like clean out the sewers… Or I don't know. Show Doom' troops inside and bring their commander…"

"That would be Lieutenant," Carol Danvers announced from the door at the opposite end of the room.

Creed smiled at the woman's nearly silent approach. She was a warrior to the core. Everything about her screamed it. From the tone of her voice, to her body language, all the way to her scent.

His smile quickly faded as a squad of troopers flank her. No sound, no scent. Nothing to them. Nothing human.

In a voice like the low rumble of thunder in the distance Creed growls, "I hate robots."

Glory kept her gaze focused on the tall blonde at the far end of the room. Curiosity lighting her eyes as she took in the stranger standing before her. There was something about her -- a sense of confidence, a lack of fear -- that Glory takes in instant dislike to.

It could be the way she was dressed: dark military styled garb, gun on hip, ammo clip, utility belt. All in all a very utilitarian look.

Maybe it was her attitude. That whole I'm here and I'm in charge kind of thing really had a way of ticking her off.

In less time then it takes for the heart to beat a single time Glory is across the room, her fist around Carol's throat and Carol being held easily off the floor. Carol instinctively grabbed hold of Glory's wrist and forearm. Glory tightened her grip saying, "maybe you're not familiar with how things work around…"

She stops as the whine of a dozen high powered rifles fill the air. Shifting her gaze from side to side Glory smirks fractionally at the men, and the weapons arrayed around her. "If you don't order them to put down their weapons… I'll snap your neck," she informs Carol.

After a small pause she loosened her grip enough for Doom's lieutenant to talk. "You'd find the consequences for that action to be extremely undesirable," Carol replied smugly despite having to talk in a near hiss. Glory shifted her gaze back to the woman. "Lord Doom has been aware of your presence for some time now and has taken measures to ensure your… Good behavior."

Glory blanched at her audacity. The urge to nap her neck, destroy the machines occupying her home, and then pay Lord Doom a visit was nearly overwhelming. Only there was no hesitation in Danvers' tone. She was completely unafraid of Glory's reaction. It was as if she had an ace up her sleeve.

"My good behavior?" She murmurs incredulously.

"Specifically your more fragile side. Those rifles were designed with one specific purpose in mind. To disrupt the magic that enable you to maintain this form." A wicked smile spread over Carol's face. "They emit both low level harmonics, on rotating frequencies, and energy of varying spectrums and wavelengths. I understand its similar to being cooked in a microwave. For you that means reverting back to your human persona. They, being robots, kill your human host."

"And what happens if your fancy, high powered toys don't work like they're suppose to?" Glory questioned with scathing anger.

"I'll already be dead," Carol responded giving the impression of an indifferent shrug. "But being machines they'll follow their programming to the end, which includes physical conflict. And since each one has been field tested…"

Glory tightened her grip pressing her back into the wall. "You should know I don't respond well to threats."

Despite the pressure Carol still managed to say, "not a threat. Simply a precaution. You have a somewhat dubious reputation…"

"Dubious," Glory parroted letting go of Carol.

Carol stretched her throat, twisting it from side to side. "The thousands of insane people you leave in your wake," she informed her. "It makes tracking your movements childishly easy. You should really consider killing them. Kind of like that poor slob," she finished pointing to the corpse hanging on the X.

Glory scowls at Carol completely unable to believe the woman's audacity. "You would, would you?" Personally she enjoyed leaving them alive to wallow in their insanity. It was also ironic to leave their deaths in Ben's hands.

Carol shrugs, "just my opinion." The twelve androids lower their weapons as they spread out.

Creed eyes the robots warily. These weren't like the one he had run into earlier. These constructions had been built for combat not pleasure. Taking one of them out would be a challenge, all of them would be… Fun.

"I should apologize for my heavy handed entrance," Carol began while not sounding all that apologetic. "The key however is of great interest to Lord Doom and my charge is to secure its location and prepare it for transport once you've used it for your return home."

Glory laughs softly, a very girlish giggle. "Seems somebody's been slightly misinformed."

"What do you mean?" Carol demanded sensing the nature of the deception. Glory didn't have the key. "Where's the key?"

"I'm in the process of acquiring it," Glory replied smoothly. "You're more then welcome to join us."

Carol cursed softly. Her choice of epitaphs perking Creed's interest. Then again her scent had perked his interest once he had gotten a whiff of it. Human, but something else as well. Not demonic, something else entirely. Something he's never come across before.

Absently he wondered if Glory noticed the fact that Doom's Lieutenant wasn't entirely human. He doubted it. For a god she was extremely unaware of events going on around her. If he was any kind of ally he would inform her. Only it was going to be much more interesting to let things play out without his interference.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A soft sigh escaped from Bobby's mouth as the young man hung up the phone. Things had definitely gotten out of hand. Buffy and her friends had pulled a runner leaving Kurt and Logan behind. Professor Xavier, Ororo, and Peter were on route to Washington D.C. to pick Illyana, Peter's little sister.

Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but for some inexplicable reason none of their phones were working. Without the phones there was no way to contact them.

_Maybe if Dr. Grey was here, _he thinks to himself. _She might have been able to contact the professor Telepathically or maybe used Cerebro._

Another deep sigh, a touch of frost filling the air, slipped past his lips. Nothing had been the same since Alkali Lake. Dr. Grey was dead, giving her life so the rest of those present would live. Scott Summers had taken a leave of absence and while he was due back any day now it was still unclear as to whether or not he would be staying on.

"So?" Marie asked. Her impatience shining through loud and clear.

Bobby could understand why. Logan had taken on the role of, if not surrogate father then at least that of over protective big brother to Marie.

"Still nothing," he answered. "The operator says there's some kind of electrical interference in the area. They haven't got a clue as to when it's gonna clear up."

Marie sat down heavily on the sofa looking for all the world like she just lost her best friend. Bobby sat down next to her putting his arm around her back and gently rubbing her lightly clothed arm. "Everything's going to be all right," he commented confidently. "Logan's tough he'll keep things together until Professor X can get out there."

She looks up at her boyfriend, a feverish light burning in her soft eyes. "We need to go," she said with an intensity he's never seen from her before.

"Go where?" he asked even though he was fairly sure he knew the answer.

"California."

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment after hearing the one word he had hoped beyond hope not to hear. Opening them he looked at her sincerely saying, "it would take us close to a week to reach Sunnydale."

"Not in the Blackbird," she reasoned quickly. "A few hours…"

"We can't take the Blackbird!" He exclaimed in a strangled voice even though he had been half expecting the statement. A little part of him was thrilled at the thought of taking the modified SR-72 Blackbird out all on his own.

"You've been training."

"On the simulators," he answered quickly. "There's a big difference between that and the real thing."

"They need help," she whispered softly. Pleadingly. "We're all there is. What would Logan do? Or Scott? Kurt? Professor Xavier?"

Bobby sighed again knowing the battle, skirmish really, was over. All of them would do whatever was necessary to help their fellow X-Men. Risk life and limb. Even Scott if Logan was in trouble and just as surprisingly the same held true in reverse.

How would he ever be able to call himself an X-Man if he wasn't willing to do the same.

"I'll start prepping the Blackbird," he told her rising to his feet. "You keep trying to get in touch with the Professor."

He just knew that, once all this was over with, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do. Hopefully he would still be alive to do the explaining.


	13. Chap 9: Miracle Part 2

1**Chapter Nine: Miracle – Part Two**

In a hushed voice, Methos cursed emphatically as the sharp metal of the stripped wire jabbed into his fingertip while he attempted to rewire the android. His long, lean fingers move with a practiced skill as he bypassed key relays in the hope of getting her to communicate with the for even a few brief moments.

_She could be the only clue as to where Leiaitciheu daughters, along with their friends, have taken off to._

The thought of Aust owing him a favor, or being indebted to him, are about as attractive now as they had been forty-five hundred years ago. When he had appeared out of the blue, in the middle of their encampment, demanding them and their soldiers vacate the area immediately.

He grimaced remembering that scorching, sun drenched afternoon on the low cracked ground of what would one day become Afghanistan.

**_Nobody saw him coming. One moment he wasn't there, the next he was._**

**_Short, even by the standards of the day. He wore the loose fitting garb of the desert people to the east. He clothes were all white, and of the finest cuts of cloth available. A long sword, with a blade made of some unknown red metal, hung from his left hip along with a heavy bladed dirk. A quiver full of arrows rested easily on his right. A small, but extremely thick horse bow is held in his left hand. A wicked, double bladed battle axe stuck up over his right shoulder. An elegant script is etched along the edge of the black metal. If it was a language it was one he didn't recognize. More weapons were secreted about his body; the loose clothing couldn't hide that from a keen, discerning eye._**

"**_Pack up your toys, get on your horses, and ride as far from the setting sun as you can and never let me see you like again." His voice is soft, like silk yet it carried a rough edge of steel. It's clear and deadly serious._**

_**Derisive laughter erupted from the throats of hundreds of men at once, including two of the four immortals. The large and imposing Silas; whose throaty boom is like the surf crashing against the cliffs, the far more dangerous, more insidious Chronos. Caspian smolders, a look of rage fueled madness lighting his eyes.**_

**_Methos watched him with shrewd eyes. He could tell there was something more then human to this man standing in front of them. He didn't know what it was about him, but he could sense it._**

**_It was also obvious the others couldn't. They were acting like the man was human when it was painfully obvious the man was anything but._**

_**No human, no immortal, would be able to stand before them with such a calm demeanor. At least not anyone with an once of sanity.**_

**_Silas screamed as he surged forward, his hands going to the wicked curved blades at his waist. Before he finished taking his first step he goes flying backwards as, not one but two broad-head shafts punched holes in his chest so close together that a thin stream of smoke rose from the wooden shafts._**

**_A third shaft is nocked and ready to fly before anyone else has a chance to gather their wits. "It's still early," the man began without the slightest hint of strain in his voice while he holds the fully drawn bow rock steady. "Not even midday. Be a shame to kill another..."_**

"**_Kill hi..." Chronos' shouted as he overcomes his shock. His words are cut short as the arrow slammed into his shoulder. The broad-head tipped arrow was driven straight through his chest plate as well as his right lung and chest._**

**_The soldiers, more afraid of Chronos' wrath then the stranger, rush forward in mass, attempting to bury him under sheer weight of numbers._**

_**He however, had other plans.**_

_**With indefensible speed, he grasped his bow by one end and spun in a tight circle wielding the bow like a staff. He clipped several men with hits ranging from unprotected ribs to shoulders to jaw; the head in general. They fly about, crashing into others or drop in a heap.**_

**_Like a giant wave, the entire group pulled back staying out of range of the devastating club he wielded. As soon as they give him the space he needed he released the bow, letting it fly into the crowd, unconcerned by where it lands. Having cleared the space he wanted he drew both blades, they appeared to have just leapt into his hands of their own violation._**

**_Again the soldiers move like a wave as they surged back in. The sound of steel striking steel rings out as the stranger begins to move amongst them, using their vast numbers against them. He was like a ghost, a wraith. Impossible to touch as he slipped, twisted, and turned managing to avoid one attack after another with skill, grace, and ease. At the same time he simply seemed to reach out, at will, and men fall to the ground. Some groan and wither on the ground in agony while others are still, unmoving, with no hint whether they were alive or dead._**

**_As the stranger weaves his deadly dance among the Horseman's soldiers, Caspian breaks off the steel point that juts out of Chronos' back, and then jerked the shaft out of his chest._**

**_Chronos groaned loudly, but shoved the pain aside as he rose to his feet. "See to Silas," he growled savagely working his shoulder. "Get those damn arrows out of him." He then turned his baleful gaze onto the battle raging below._**

From somewhere within the network of natural caverns and man made sewer tunnels that created an intricate underground labyrinth, an insistent drip - water striking steel - echoed through the obscenely wide passageways. The extremely dim light, combined with the uneven, slippery moss covered floors makes gaining secure footing a rather dubious endeavor.

At least Duncan found that to be the case as he, with hasty care, picked his way along the littered floor. All along managing to avoid the puddles of foul smelling, brackish water. In the back of his mind, like a dim after thought, he wondered where he was going to find a change of clothes once they were topside again. He knew, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the only he was going to be able to remove the stench from what he's currently wearing would be by burning the clothes, in most states that would constitute an environmental hazard.

If they found Creed somewhere in these vast catacombs though he would consider ten thousand dollars worth of clothes a small price to pay, let alone the few hundred he was currently wearing. Finding Creed was the province of the man ahead of him, sloshing through the muck and filth as if they were spring water and a bed of roses.

Logan/Wolverine.

A hundred, more like a thousand, different names have been his throughout the eons he has lived. It's entirely possible he doesn't remember them all.

He sets a hard, fast pace as he followed Creed's trail. A trail Duncan has to take Logan's word is even there. He hasn't seen even a hint of a sign, the softest of impression made by a person. Which before hand he would have said was impossible of someone Creed's size, but he wasn't able to find any sign left from Logan's passage either.

A fact Duncan found all the more disconcerting since he could see exactly where the diminutive man was walking. He was a ghost, just like all those years ago when he had first stumbled upon Logan.

Duncan thought Logan must be using his incredible sense of smell to track Creed's scent. Though how the man could smell anything in the stench the immortal couldn't fathom. He could barely draw breath, and that was only while fighting the urge to vomit the entire time. Just the thought of deliberately smelling the foul, putrid air in this place was nearly enough to make him empty his stomach on the spot.

Logan hadn't even hesitated upon finding the open man hole. A quick sniff of the air, nostrils flaring, just to make sure he wasn't being duped and then he was dropping down the opening.

Duncan, who had only just managed to keep Logan in sight - a remarkable accomplishment, one he would congratulate himself for later, considering the speeds the man is capable of achieving - during the initial foot race after Creed. Only his rash actions had separated them, giving Creed the opportunity to pick them off one by one.

He had no illusions about the outcome if he had to face Creed on his own. It would be a slaughter. One he was positive he wouldn't enjoy very much. Considering he would be the one getting slaughtered.

"Aarghh!" Logan's inhuman roar erupted with the violence of a volcano. A sharp hiss of steel on steel fills the cavernous tunnel as his claws slice through the flesh between his knuckles. Another harsh, guttural growl spills from Logan's throat.

A hard slash leaves three deep gouges in the thick stone wall. Another and another, a continuous stream of free flowing hacks and slashes, each one faster then the one before, tears apart the wall. Chunks of stone, dirt fill the air as Logan vents his rage.

Duncan isn't even aware his sword is in hand until he feels the cool ivory hilt pressing against the flesh of his palm. He lowers the blade, but keeps it at the ready as Logan continues his attempt at abstract art.

It took several minutes for Logan to come out of his rage; chest heaving, shoulders slumped, head bowed. Claws extended, gleaming brightly in the pale light.

"Feel better now?" Duncan asked quietly.

Logan turned his head back, looking over his left shoulder. The feral light smoldering in his eyes pinned Duncan where he stood and for a moment the immortal thinks he may have pushed him just a little too far.

Then a wry grin creases Logan's face as his claws respond to a mental command snapping back into his forearms. "He's crisscrossed these tunnels so much..." The rest of his words are lost as jumbled growl that Duncan is just as glad he can't make out.

Duncan had a fairly accurate idea of Logan's response to his, "what now?" question as he slipped his sword back into the sheath inside his coat.

Obviously still enraged he snarled, "Do the only thing possible. Find my wayward girls before Creed and bring them back home," as he started walking away. Then softly, he added in a mumble, "one way or another."

**_Methos watched Chronos while he watched the stranger. He could tell Chronos was getting angrier by the second. "So brother, what do you say we go show this mortal the folly of picking a fight with the Four Horsemen?"_**

**_Methos gave his head a deceptively mild shake. "We should make a deal," he replied in a soft whisper._**

_**Chronos' glare was like a white hot poker. "We don't deal with mortals," he hissed.**_

"**_This once," Methos began in a deceivingly soft voice as he grabbed hold of Chronos' bicep. "It would be better to make the deal."_**

_**Chronos pulled his arm away as he spat out, "if you want to deal so bad… You do it over my dead body."**_

"**_Look at him," Methos continued trying to convince Chronos his opinion was the correct one. He pointed at the stranger; he moved with a fluid grace, his red blade and dirk wove an intricate pattern as he matched five men stroke for stroke, and drove them back._**

"**_Against humans… Any of us would do as well." Caspian growled hefting his monstrous axe. "Against us…"_**

"**_We shall cut him down, separating wheat from the chafe," Chronos promised. He started forward, powerful strides carrying him down the small knoll._**

_**Caspian spared Methos with a short, pleading glare before following Chronos. Methos fumed silently as he glowered at the scene unfolding before him. The immortal admits that Chronos had been right with one thing he had said, at least partially so.**_

_**This fight was folly. Just not on the stranger's part.**_

_**Still he couldn't allow his brothers to face this fight alone.**_

_**After all there was ever chance that they could win. If that were to happen and he didn't aid them, there was every possibility he wouldn't live to see the dawn.**_

_**The thoughts run through his mind quickly, before Caspian had even taken a single step. "I knew you join us in this most glorious fight," the large man bellowed as he draped a thick, tree trunk size arm across Methos' shoulders.**_

_**With a grim smirk he responded with, "wouldn't miss it for the world." His sarcastic tone was wasted on Caspian. Subtlety was not the big man's strong suit. He hoped Silas would recover soon. He had the distinct feeling they were going to need the wild man's lightening like speed and unpredictable insanity.**_

"_**Enough!" Chronos' shout boomed over the raging battle. It stopped with the suddenness of a spring squall.**_

**_This close to the downed mortals Methos could still feel them; their life force as strong as ever. Over thirty men downed, and not one of them dead._**

_**He wondered if Chronos had bothered feeling the stranger, gauging his strength. It was doubtful. He wasn't immortal, therefore he wasn't worthy of Chronos' attention.**_

_**Methos didn't bother asking Caspian. Sensing other immortals was the extent of his ability. He could barely feel a human's life force; much less gauge their strength from it.**_

**_He turned to face them. His face was split by a wide grin and a joyous light shone in his odd, black eyes. If he was surprised to see Chronos, whole and hearty after he shot him the chest, it didn't show on his face at all. His words when he spoke were biting, full of scorn. "Finally decided to step up? Do your own killing."_**

_**Methos could tell the man was deliberately trying to goad them. "Easy brothers… He obviously has no idea who we are. If he did he'd be trembling before us, begging us to spare his miserable life." He simply continued to smile at them. "See the man is an imbecile. A wizard with the blade but he…"**_

"_**You are Methos," he said quietly. His soft words slicing through the air. "The moving landslide at your side is Caspian. Chronos, and the one yet to join us is Silas…"**_

_**Two sets of eyes harden on him as he tells them he knows exactly who each of them is and exactly what they are. Caspian knows, but doesn't grasp the implications of it.**_

"…**_I am 1Aust Iut Leiaitciheu. This land you seem so found of belongs to me."_**

_**A puzzled expression creased Methos' brow. The language that name was derived from had been ancient when he had been a boy, and had to have been forgotten since. He himself hadn't heard anybody speak it in near a thousand years. Roughly it meant, "He who is without death." He wasn't sure if that was a good omen for them or not.**_

_**Chronos laughed at the comment. "This lands been untended long as I can remember. And I have a long memory."**_

"**_Not long enough," Aust announced stiffly. His gaze shifted to the top of the knoll. "The dead shall rise and seek dominion over the world." He spoke as if he were quoting. "Course that has nothing to do with your kind does it?" He added after a short pause. "Friends awake." Aust's shifts his gaze to lock eyes with Chronos. "Last chance to pack up your army and get off my land."_**

_**Caspian reacted first which is a surprise to both Methos and Chronos. With a massive roar he takes a devastating downward chop with his axe.**_

_**Aust slips his right shoulder back and to the side just avoiding the heavy blow. He allows his momentum to carry him into a tight spin; his right foot kicking out knocking Caspian's axe from hands. The red blade whistling sharply as it cuts the air on its path to the thick neck of the overbalanced immortal.**_

**_Methos swore he saw streamers of smoke evaporating in the air where the red blade passed. He doesn't hesitate though; steel rings against steel, sparks fly as Methos' blade intercepted the red sword. Leiaitciheu dirk slices open a long gash on Caspian's forearm as Chronos' blade seeks out Aust flesh, but the man is quick skipping back out of range, limiting the damage done to nothing more then his shirt._**

_**While Chronos is overextended Aust darts back in; his blades seeking immortal blood. Again Methos was there, his sword deflecting the red blade from its goal. The heavy dirk though is once again stained red with blood as it slashes Chronos flesh between breastplate and neck. A few more inches and the immortal would have a scar to match the vertical one that splits his right eye.**_

**_Aust reverses his direction; twisting his left shoulder to the right and spinning around Methos, somehow maintaining body contact the entire way. As he comes back to back he drives his dirk deep into Methos' back, fiery pain blazing its way throughout the immortal's body._**

**_Ripping the dirk free - Methos fell to his knees - Aust surged forward to meet the charging Silas. They come to a head in a clash of speed and steel. Blades whirl and spin, ringing out as they strike sending sparks high into the air, while the sun flashed off their gleaming blades. Faster and faster they moved; blades blurring, small cuts blossoming as if by magic as they circle and counter circle._**

_**Constantly moving.**_

_**Always moving.**_

**_Faster and faster._**

_**Methos pushed himself back to his feet as he shoved the pain away. Silently he cursed seeing the pattern Aust has set. "Go," he hissed shoving Caspian. The big man - axe in hand - rushed up the slope with surprising speed.**_

_**Not fast enough to make a difference.**_

**_Aust slid back drawing Silas in. He dropped hi sword, his right hand latching onto Silas' left hand with a bone crushing grip around the hilt of his curved dirk, shoving the blade aside. At the same time his own dirk gained the inside edge on Silas' long blade; circling it down and out, before flashing back in, sliding smoothly between the immortal's ribs. Releasing the heavy dirk; Aust spun, twisting under Silas' arm, an arm he manipulated and planted the immortal's own dirk in his heart._**

**_Another roar filled the air as Silas fell, face first into the rugged ground that was soaking up his blood. Aust danced back quickly, but not quite fast enough as razor sharp steel creased his side, biting in deep. Despite the wound he jumped back again as Caspian cut down diagonally. He reversed his swing; turning the downward chop into a thrust that slammed into Aust's stomach. Caspian strained, trying to force the blade in deeper. Only it doesn't budge._**

_**Aust holds the axe at bay with one hand as the pair struggle. He large immortal grunts and ripped the axe out of Aust's hand. Spinning around he stumbled as the axe passed through the space Aust had been.**_

_**Caspian gasped as the red blade bloomed in his chest. The large man stumbled forward, shocked by the unexpected turn of events. He didn't know of any man - mortal or immortal - that could continue moving with such fluidity after receiving the wound that had been inflicted on him.**_

**_Grasping the sword in his powerful hands, Caspian began the painful process of pulling it from his chest, watching as Aust seemed to sense Chronos and Methos' attack. He threw himself backward, perfectly splitting the distance between the two immortals' blades. He hits the ground, rolling backward as the immortals change direction, spinning inward, blades held at the ready in front of them._**

**_Aust came to his feet, his axe springing from its harness and into his hand with such speed as to seem of its own violation. A feral grin split his face as he gathered himself for the next attack. Methos circled out wide to the left as Chronos did the same to the right. Both immortals are extremely cautious, Chronos finally accepting the fact that here was a human worthy of his respect._**

**_It was unfathomable to Methos how the man was still standing with the wound Caspian had inflicted. He knew the man had been cut and cut deep. The blood soaking what had once been a pristine shirt was proof of that, yet here he was, looking as fresh as ever and just as ready to do battle as when he first appeared._**

_**As if he could sense their confusion, Aust - keeping his axe moving back and forth between the pair - grabbed hold of his shirt with his left hand and ripped it away as if it were made of nothing more then desert.**_

_**Methos' eyes widen. The wounds were there, but no where near as damaging as he believed them to be originally. Then his eyes became even larger as he realized why. Right in front of him, Aust's flesh was knitting itself back together, the wounds closing so rapidly that in less then a minute it would be as if he had never been injured at all.**_

**_Not even the oldest immortals were capable of healing that quickly. They would have bled out and died before the wound could even begin to heal, leaving them at their enemy's mercy._**

_**With a guttural battle cry Chronos, having come to the same conclusion as Methos, charged ahead. Aust rushed to meet him with Methos hot on his heels.**_

_**Chronos' blade thrust forward, caught in the half moon shaped blade. Aust gave the axe handle a sharp twist trying to trap the immortal's blade, but Chronos managed to extricate his sword first as he skipped back. He ducked low and to the left avoiding an upward slash from the right, and then darted back in, his sword once again seeking blood.**_

**_Aust slapped the sword away, the palm of his left hand striking the blade's top edge. With the speed of striking serpent his fist streaked upward catching Chronos square in the jaw, staggering him. Like a whirlwind Aust spun; left shoulder flying backwards, right dipping down as his axe arced high, whistling as its razor edge sliced the air._**

_**With speed born from desperation Chronos hurled himself away from the deadly swing as the axe cleaved the air in a downward arc that might well have separated the left side of his from the right, starting at his right shoulder and finishing up somewhere around his left hip. He rolled away kicking up a cloud of dirt as his brother slammed into the short - more then human - man.**_

_**Methos cursed in his native tongue as Aust somehow managed to avoid his thrust. His left hand grabbed hold of the immortal's forearm in a crushing grip. Methos can feel bones crack under the pressure. Never before would have believed such a small man capable of such strength.**_

_**Swiveling slightly Aust smashed the haft of the black axe into Methos' face stunning the immortal. Aust twisted the immortal's arm, slipping underneath, his axe scoring a deep gouge along his abdomen. Methos then felt his body leave the ground as he was flipped up and over, his back crashed to the earth with numbing force.**_

**_He lay on the ground, stunned, as Aust continued his spin, axe coming up high for the final swing. He watched it fall with agonizing slowness. A numbness had washed over him, settled into his bones. He couldn't make himself move out of the way, or care overly much that his life was about to come to an end. Everything about him seemed to grind to a halt as he lay there._**

"**_Stop!" A voice called out slogging its way through the haze that had enveloped Methos and everything snapped back into place an instant before the black blade stopped, yet hovered just above his head._**

_**Without thinking about it Methos rolled out from under that deadly axe. He came to his feet, sword poised in his right hand, his left arm still several minutes from being fully healed.**_

"_**We'll move on," Chronos snarled. He didn't like the thought, or the fact, that they had been beaten, and soundly so, by one man. "So long as you agree to our terms."**_

_**Aust laughed out loud at Chronos. A robust and bellowing guffaw. "You're hardly in any position to naming terms boy," he finished derisively.**_

"_**Then we can always pick up where we left off," Chronos suggested.**_

"**_I don't think your friend would like that." Aust said with a shrug as he hefted his battle axe. "This time I don't hold back though."_**

_**Chronos smiled at him, a malicious grin that lights his eyes with an evil gleam. "It won't be me or my brothers you'll be fighting. Our men will be handling that chore."**_

_**Aust looked at them s he said, "That'll buy you an hour to make peace with whatever gods you worship."**_

"_**We'll be making peace alright," Chronos agreed. "Peace alliances. Whatever it takes to bring others of our kind against you. How well do you think you'd fare against ten of us? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand men that don't stay dead when you kill them?"**_

"_**What makes you think you'd get more then two hours?"**_

"_**Four of us," Chronos answered with a gesture around them, "four different directions… lots of land out there. Do you really think you could find all of us?"**_

**_Aust smiled like he had secret none of them could begin to image. After a moment studying Chronos he asked, "What do you want?" A question that surprised everyone present._**

_**Chronos smiled again. "Your vow, to never interfere with another immortal for the remainder of your life."**_

"**_Interferes a broad term," Aust pointed out. "And my life… You have no idea…"_**

"Fuck," Methos growled as another wire jabbed into his index finger. A small spark arcs though. The feeling is similar to sticking his finger into an electrical outlet.

From across the room, Faith - most of her body hidden behind a screen - glanced over at Pierson, a not so innocent smirk creased her lips. She grimaced as the needle and thread lashed the flesh of her upper thigh together.

Amanda can't help the amazement that lights her eyes watching the speed with which the deep gouges were healing. Even without the stitching she was doing, Amanda doubted if the wounds would leave a scar. They also would have been healed by noon. Not as fast as an immortal, or Logan - as he was now calling himself - but far faster then any ordinary human.

"I don't know why you're bothering," Faith grumbled echoing Amanda's thoughts. She wanted to be out hunting Creed with Duncan and Logan. At least she sort of trusted Duncan. He seemed to genuinely care about what happened to her.

"Honey," Amanda began as she finished with the last stitch. "A woman, especially a beautiful girl, like you, should make every effort to ensure their beauty never fades away."

A sour grunt is Faith's only answer. After a short moment she added in a soft murmur, not like I'm ever gonna have to worry about either of those things."

Amanda tied off the last stitch and then cut the string. "What?"

Faith rolled over pulling her pants up. "Don't scar… and I'll never grow old, so it really doesn't matter."

Amanda can easily detect the bitterness and anger tinting the young girl's voice. "Why's that?" She asked, allowing the concern to seep into her tone.

"You've been hanging around Buffy awhile now," Faith remarked as she hopped off the improvised operating table slid her leather pants over her hips.

"Only a few days."

Faith grunted again as she snapped her leather pants. "Buffy's old for a slayer… most of won't ever see eighteen."

"Why?"

"Just the way it is," she said as she picked up her leather jacket.

"What's that?" Amanda questioned seeing the scar on Faith's flat stomach.

"Oh… That," she muttered as if it was something she had forgotten about.

If she didn't know better she would say it was from a heavy bladed knife. "I thought you said Slayer's didn't scar?"

Her finger traced the old wound like it was a fond souvenir. After a moment she said softly, "mystical blade. A gift from a friend… Like the scar on Buffy's neck."

Amanda frowned at the answer. There was something, a clue in what she just said. Before she can remark on it though Faith moved away, effectively ending the conversation.


	14. Chap 9: Miracle Part 3

**Chapter Nine: Miracle – Part Three**

Life rushed back slowly as Nick woke with a gasp; it was like breaking the surface of the bitterly cold North Atlantic waters and gulping down that first lungful of air, an electric tingle that surged from his spine outward as life consumed what had been a dead body only an instant before. He hated it, yet at the same time, was exhilarated by the fact he was in fact still among the living.

Then his eyes refocused allowing him to take in his surroundings, and he cursed softly as the memories come flooding back. Pain, death, and more of the same. Not for the first time he wished he was mortal and could simply die and stay dead.

Thanks to Amanda that was never going to happen.

Not until somebody took his head.

A fact he was keeping from his captures. Despite everything he loved his life and wouldn't give it up. It was something he was just beginning to realize. Now all he had to do was live long enough to find Amanda and apologize to her.

Not that he still wasn't upset with her for killing him. He still felt she should have trusted him with the truth. Maybe not in the beginning, but once he proved that he could handle the fact that there were Immortals out there…

_Who are you kidding Wolfe_? His inner voice was filled with all different shades of sarcasm. _You still can't handle what you are_.

No matter how much he wanted to deny it; his inner voice was right. He couldn't handle what he was. He might have accepted it, but acceptance wasn't quite the same. He fought against it as much as he embraced it.

Still he knew he had to find Amanda. She didn't deserve how he had left things between them. He had lashed out simply because he could no longer judge her actions safe in his ivory tower; her and all the other Immortals out there.

The year he had been with her he had witnessed evil; worse than anything he ever encountered as a cop. Saw it up close and personal, like never before. In a flash he was no different then she was, no different than any of them. Without ever having taken a head he felt dirty inside.

_Guilt by association_.

Looking up he saw Creed making his way towards him. There was no hiding the fact he was alive from Victor Creed. Beyond him, sitting upon a divan that made the Royal Throne in Buckingham Palace look like a pauper's stool, was Glory.

She looked beyond bored.

Never a good thing in Nick's opinion. She had a way of making Creed seem like a placid brook compared to raging, white water rapids. He couldn't remember how many times in the past few hours he has been killed, but it had to be more then half a dozen.

"No more," Nick croaked. Every time he came back from the dead it was in perfect health, yet his throat was dry as dust as he spoke.

Creed grimaced at the comment, "but think of all the fun Nicky." If it was meant to be enticing it failed miserably.

At the same time Nick said, "Anything you want to know…" It had the sound of teeth being pulled.

"Blah, blah, blah," Glory whined tiredly. "You don't know anything," she informed him. She stood up the expression on her face was exasperation. "Oh, sure. You could rattle on and on about Immortals and their game like you have been…" She moved crossing the room in a blur that Nick wasn't able to follow. "…but it's so tired." She finished standing right in front of him. "On and on, can't die, can't die… fight to the death. Now see, there's a contradiction I'm just… how can you have a fight to the death if you can't die?"

Nick just looked at her, his expression hardened. There was no way he was going to tell her that he could be killed.

"I guess, like most humans, you Immortals only serve one purpose." She moved forward like a ravenous wolf. Her fingers sunk into his skull. It wasn't the usual sense of wholeness that washed over her, this was something completely different. It was as if a small fragment of the universe had opened up right before her eyes; truths once known were no longer hidden by those who banished her in this realm. For a brief moment she had glimpsed her home. It was all a flash, there and gone so quickly she thought it had been madness.

The world, the universe itself exploded through Nick's mind. Everything opened before him. There was nothing that he didn't see, that he didn't know; from one side of infinity to the other and everything in-between. It was all a contradiction; large and small, fast and slow, good and evil, light and dark, full and empty, wisdom and idiocy, ignorance and knowledge. He was one with everything; from the smallest microbe, to creatures that would dwarf a solar system and dwelt in the vast empty darkness between galaxies, to beings that were the embodiment of all; aspects of the universe itself. One glanced in his direction; Nick would have said it looked surprised at noticing him.

Suddenly everything rushed back in on itself and Nick found himself back inside his own head. He remembered everything only he didn't. It was at the forefront of his mind, but was gone. It was like trying to hold onto a wet bar of soap by gripping it as hard as possible. The more he tried to hold on to what had been there the quicker it fled.

Glory stepped back a look of pure astonishment glazing his face. "It's been here the entire time," she murmured.

"What?" Creed growled looking cross-way at Nick. "You trying to tell me he's the key you've been worrying your pretty little head about?"

"Don't be an idiot," she hissed. "The Key's pure, that meat pie is anything but… Only he's got the tiniest little sliver of it in him?" She added with a speculative frown. "What if all these Immortals have these little pieces of my key? It would be just like those damnable Monks… spread the Key out amongst all these Immortals. It'll take me forever to find them all."

"If you don't mind a suggestion," Carol said.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The air itself was heavy. Leaden with the pent up, unreleased frustration that seemed to sap everyone's strength without favor or discrimination; making most listless or irritable or sullen or short tempered or some combination of sour temperaments. Inside the slow moving RV, that lacked even the most rudimentary air conditioning, they had still been able to roll down window and capture the semblance of breeze if nothing else.

Inside an RV filled with people that barely got along with each other under prime conditions was like being stuck in a war zone. With the life and death pressure they have been living under for the past couple of days; Buffy thought they were fortunate nobody was dead.

Or deader?

The motor lodge they had pulled up in front of; a small, miserable looking, single story structure, whose hay day had come and gone shortly after construction was completed nearly a quarter century ago was located far off the beaten path. It was a good hour long back to what passed for the main highway in these parts; a partially paved, two lane, black top. The only reason they had even stumbled upon the place was because of several wrong turns that led to several more. Despite its isolation, not to mention dilapidation, a half dozen cars sat in its parking lot; a mixture of cracked pavement, loose gravel, and sun baked dirt.

Stout beams, of weathered wood, cracked and crumbling with age and neglect supported a drooped awning of miss matched shingles. The main building, the only building, was in desperate need of a good paint job; a paint job that would surly cause it to collapse in upon itself.

As Spike had pointed out when he caught his first glimpse of the low rent motel, the only thing that could save it was putting it to the torch and building fresh. Like a phoenix it could rise from its own ashes.

"It doesn't look so bad," Dawn said as she took a few steps away from the RV - as far as she could go without causing undo stress in Buffy and Spike. Her innocent blue eyes trying to see the good in everything; it was a serious challenge with this building.

From the front of the RV Spike snorted. Dawn glanced toward the Vampire as he leaned, with casual indifference, against the front fender; between the bumper and the wheel. His cigarette's orange amber glowed briefly as he inhaled. Feeling, rather then seeing, Dawn's eyes on him he muttered, "suppose you right 'bit. It ain't that bad." He looked the motel over once again. "Sides, I've lived in worse cesspits."

"We've all seen your crypt Spike." Xander's voice drifted out of the front passenger window. "You don't have to brag about it."

A wane smile creased Spike's lips. He flicked the spent but across the parking lot. "That was fairly clever Harris. You think it up yourself… or does demon girl spoon feed you your lines?"

"Spike. Xander." The sharp edge of warning in the tiny blonde's voice from where she sat on the RV's bottom step was clear to the vampire's sensitive ears. "I thought we all agreed to leave the past in the past and try to be civil to each other?"

With an impudent glower Spike smirked at Buffy. "That was civil." With a shrug he added, "Whelp's still breathing ain't he?"

"If he's not…"

Buffy stood as soon as she saw Giles exit the office. The screen door swung shut behind him with a sharp screech, like nails being dragged across a chalk board. Her abrupt, almost violent rise brought Xander to a stop before he could finish his comment. "Work it out yourselves." After taking a couple of steps she stopped and turned back to face the RV. "Just be sure not to kill each other."

She doesn't know why she thought if they all agreed to get along that they would, especially Xander and Spike. The two of them were like a pair of Pit Bulls with a big meaty bone that neither was willing to share.

The fact that she happened to be that bone did nothing to endear either one of them to her. She had hoped Xander's relationship with Anya would, in someway, curb his over protective impulses towards her. That however didn't appear to be the case. One day, very soon, she was going to have to remind him that he was a friend. That's all he has ever been, all he was ever going to be to her was a friend.

Nothing more.

Spike was more problematic. She knew the vampire had fallen in love with her, or claimed to fallen in love with her. She couldn't put aside her doubts, that it might be nothing more then an elaborate ruse on the vampire's part. If it was, it was a plan far subtler than anything she has seen from Spike before.

Plus there was Glory.

If he wanted the chip out, to get back at her, to hurt her, than he had the opportunity to do that when Glory had him. She was sure Spike could have made a deal with the deranged Hell God that would have given him everything he wanted.

Only he hadn't taken it. He had been beaten, tortured, nearly killed and still kept her secret. That she didn't know the why of it kept nagging at her. He was more than capable of taking that kind of punishment for reasons all his own.

She had to wonder if maybe, what he told her all those years ago wasn't the truth. That he liked the world just the world just the way it was. At the time she had thought the only reason he was helping her was his hatred of Angelus. That or he wanted Drusilla back and saw Buffy as a means to an end.

She hoped beyond hope that he had realized what he felt for her wasn't love. Not that he couldn't love. After all he had loved Drusilla for more than a hundred years. Loved her more then he wanted to kill her, and everybody knew how much Spike loved to fight slayers, loved to kill them. But when it came to the choice between keeping Drusilla alive and fighting her, he had chosen Drusilla and let her escape.

Love won out.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Giles studied Buffy as she crossed the parking lot. The tiny blonde was wearing a stony expression making her mood rather easy to read; angry, annoyed, irritated, any one or all of the above would fit. What she was thinking was a mystery to him, as was often the case when she was in one of her darker moods. This was why he always found it easier to work with her when she was in a good mood.

This time it wasn't very difficult to learn what was bothering her. Not when she came right out and said, "What made me think…" A quick glance back at the RV finished her statement.

"Because you insist in believing the best about everyone."

Buffy looked back at Giles with a slight quirk to her right eyebrow. "What about you? Don't you believe that given a choice everyone would want to do the right thing?"

"I'm British Buffy. Pessimism is our national heritage." He deadpanned with a completely straight face. Buffy stared at him with a baffled expression. She couldn't tell if he was serious or joking. His face hadn't change yet; he simply continued to gaze at her with that stoic British reserve. Finally he continued by saying, "I managed to procure us a pair of rooms with an adjoining door. One just for Spike, while the rest of us will have to make do with the other. Perhaps if we barricade ourselves in we might enjoy a few hours peace and quite."

This time Buffy smiled clearly sensing the humor. "Only if you chain and gag him."

Giles shuddered, a barely perceptible movement. "That seems a tad forward considering our relationship."

This time Buffy frowned. She knew Giles was joking but she wasn't getting the British humor. She thought it was a little too subtle for her. The important thing though was that Giles was joking. In her mind that meant things couldn't be as bad as she believed they were. Suddenly her face scrunched up in disgust as she said, "ahh Giles… so not an image I need to see."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Faith watched Logan with a glint of wonder in her eyes. The small man knelt on the rented sedan's deep ocean blue hood; his right hand was secured under the back of the hood on the passenger side, right in front of her. He positioned himself there before they started off on the trail after Buffy and her marry little band of idiots - that was how Faith saw them - just shy of seven hours ago, and hadn't moved; to any noticeable degree, yet. Sixty, maybe seventy miles an hour - Faith wasn't sure having not been allowed behind the wheel - and the man hardly budged. He would point every so often to indicate a direction, but other than that he was still as any statue she had ever seen.

"Ever see anything like that before?" She asked the man sitting next to her. Duncan Macleod, his dark hair pulled back into a ponytail that hung between his shoulder blades. It was obvious to her that he thought there was trouble in the very near future; his face was a stony mask of determination, and his deep brown eyes stern with intensity. She was surprised to find herself in a car with him so soon after their first stint together, and rather glad he had taken a shower after his excursion into Sunnydale's subterranean world. Just as glad Logan was on the outside of the car.

It really was the last place she expected to be.

Who would have thought the great Buffy Summers would run; not that she never has before? "Because, you know… got a few years on me and all that." She was still having a hard time accepting the fact that the man was immortal. It was one of those little details her brain just couldn't wrap itself around. "Just figure you might have seen something like it before," she added when he didn't answer her right away.

Duncan gave his head a small shake in mild irritation. "The world's a big place… More to it then one person can ever hope to see, even if they happen to live a few hundred years?" Maybe Methos has seen people like Logan before. There seemed to be some sort of shared history between them, but neither was talking. This, as far as Duncan was concerned, was never a good sign. Both men seemed to play things as close to the vest as possible.

Everything had been so hectic after their encounter with Creed that Duncan had never gotten the chance to ask Methos what had brought him to Sunnydale in the first place. They had just gotten back from the sewers and he managed to grab a thirty second shower - enough time to soap up, rinse off, and not much else - before Amanda popped in to tell him Logan was getting restless and wanted to be on the road.

Not knowing was gnawing on him a little. Since first encountering Methos half a decade ago one of the few things he had learnt about the oldest Immortal was that he did things for his own reason; reasons most would never know or understand - to meet some end only he could see. He considered Methos a friend, but couldn't forget that his blade had taken the heads of quite a few friends over the years when left with no other choice. He always searched - desperately so at times - for reasons not to be drawn into such conflicts; usually until he was backed into a corner and left with no other recourse, and regretted each and every such occurrence.

It happened more and more often of late; as good, honest, morally grounded Immortals seemed to be crushed under the weight of time and their own existence on its fringe; the years slipping between their fingers like grains of sand. So caught up in their belief that they were somehow beyond the laws of men, nature, or God that they failed to see the truth of it; that they were all created equal with every other person on the planet with no special privilege or exceptions.

What he detested most however; was that he seemed to have been chosen Judge, Jury, and Executioner. He often wondered what gave him the right to decide if somebody deserved to live or die; why old friends seemingly threw themselves at him, forced him to make that decision. Not that it was a very hard decision to make, human nature being what it is - self-preservation won out in the end more often then not.

Logan's hand came up and Duncan brought the car to an immediate stop. Despite its suddenness Faith noted that feral mutant didn't budge in the slightest from his hunkered down position on the hood; reminding her that man was stronger then she would have thought just looking at him. Not as strong as Creed and definitely not as strong as her or Buffy, but still stronger then the average man.

With the car almost at a dead stop Logan hopped off the hood. By the time her and Duncan got out of the vehicle he was already five yards past the rear bumper, squatting down at the shoulder of the road, and studying something in the soft earth; something she couldn't make out. Faith thought it was a track, but didn't have an eye for it.

Las Vegas was still a good eight hour drive ahead of them, maybe more considering that they had been sticking exclusively to back roads and avoiding anything that even remotely resembled an actual highway. The ground here was still solid earth and not the ever changing sands that surround Sin City, or the hard packed rocky terrain of the semi-mountainous country they had just emerged from.

Duncan knelt down next to him, his right index finger tracing a horseshoe shape in the brown dirt. "Horse," he proclaimed softly; as if there were some weighty mystery contained in his word. Logan nodded at his single word, and the Immortal's head swiveled back and forth as he searched the roadside in the soft, subtle darkness of predawn; the red taillights bathing the area in its unnatural light.

He seemed to have spotted something and moved off the shoulder a little way. He picked up what Faith took to be a rock, only revised her opinion when he crumpled it his hands and sniffed it. A distinctive fragrance reached her nose and she nearly gagged. "That's just fucked up," she grumbled lowly.

"They passed this way about six hours ago," Duncan said letting the droppings fall back to the ground.

"Who really cares when some horse shit in the woods?" Faith questioned still feeling the bile rise in her throat.

Again Logan nodded his assent. "They're getting closer, only three hours behind them now… Cutting cross country like they've been." He pointed out the direction they were going; their tracks heading out at almost a thirty degree angle to the road.

"Other then old guys wanting to prove how disgusting they can be," she answered herself even though nobody else seemed to listening to her.

"You've spotted them before?" Duncan asked a little concerned he had been left out of something important. He hated it when vital information was kept from him.

Logan gazed out over the landscape towards the east. He wanted to go after the horsemen, but knew he would never be able to reach them before they reached Buffy and Dawn if he did that. His only choice was keeping on the way he had been; hoping that Buffy would be able to stay ahead of them long enough him to catch up. "Twice," he finally answered without taking his eyes off the wilderness. "Once could be nothing," he said seeming to sense Duncan's ire, "twice could just be coincident…" he shrugged showing he didn't really believe it.

Duncan sighed softly as he ran his right hand over his scalp; his hand coming to rest on the back of his head. He understood the reasoning, he just disliked being in the dark. "I don't suppose Buffy gave you detailed information about anybody else after her head?"

"Buffy'd try to live without oxygen before admitting she'd need help," Faith scoffed. As she said that she couldn't help but think the same thing about herself. _Must be a slayer thing_. "What's the big with a couple of horses chasing after her?"

Logan grunted as he headed back to the car.

Duncan however motioned her over. He pointed down to the ground and asked, "See those?"

Her night vision easily picked out the impressions in the ground as she mumbled, "what about 'em?"

"Pay attention and you just might learn something," Logan said as he lit a cigar. He didn't like the delay, but knew it wouldn't matter much.

"Horse, even carrying a man wouldn't leave that deep of an impression on this ground… Not unless they were a very large man or carrying a few hundred pounds of gear."

Faith shrugged her shoulders not getting the point of what he was trying to say. "So what, you saying we should be on the lookout for Santa with a big bag of his toys?"

Duncan shook his head; a wane smile had creased his lips. His patience seemed inexhaustible to the dark slayer. "If I had to venture a guess, I'd say chain-mail barding. The men… probably are wearing the same."

"Men?"

"Thirty at least," Duncan informed her. "The grounds been churned up pretty good. Could easily be twice that number."

Faith felt her blood freeze. Demons she could face; the same for vampires and hell gods. She thought she could anyway. But men; warm body, living, breathing men. The last man she had contact with - outside of small six by ten room with bars on three sides - was Wesley. The image of him; strapped to a chair, blood oozing from the dozens of shallow cuts she had inflicting on him for no reason other than she could while she whittled away the time – and him – as she waited for Angel, was still stark in her mind. So were Allan Finch, Professor Worth, and several other people. She didn't know if she could face a man in combat…

But she wasn't about to let anyone else know that.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The android was useless; just a heap of scrape metal, loose wires, plastic, and silicon that felt too much like human skin for Methos' taste. He had tried to get the contraption working again, but had failed miserably. In seven hours of intense work – the last five here at the Summers' house and the first two at the Gallery - he hasn't gotten the slightest squawk out of the machine. It was going to take somebody with a far greater knowledge of electronic engineering to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

A soft peal of Amanda's laughter caused Methos to glance in her direction. He didn't need to look in order to know what was going on, but he did just the same. Amanda was sitting on the sofa, her body having sunk into the plush cushions. A soft, almost flirtatious smile graced her lips. Once again, she looked immaculate in her soft cream colored assemble; her encounter with Sabertooth at the gallery seemed to have left no lasting mark on her.

None on the surface at any rate.

Methos though knew it wasn't that easy to shrug off an encounter with something more unkillable then you are; especially when you've spent so long being on top of the food chain. His original encounter with Aust, had taken years for him to fully accept. It just wasn't something Immortals dealt with very well.

Chronos had never really gotten over it, insisted it never happened; though he was reluctant to go back into Afghanistan after that, even a century later. And Silas, well Silas was crazy as a loon to begin with. Caspian seemed to be the only one to fully accept the battle for the axe kicking it was, than shrugged and moved on.

Kurt was hunkered down on the sofa's far arm; his odd two toed feet gripping the cushioned arm as adroitly as fingers would. The thick dark brown duster, a little worse for wear, hung to the carpeted floor. His arms were wrapped around his knees as he leaned forward intently. What he was so intent on was what took Methos by surprise.

Joe was busy regaling Kurt with some quaint little anecdotes about Amanda, Duncan, and Adam Pierson. Methos has never seen Joe take to somebody so quickly before, it was normally more then a month before the watcher would cracked a smile around somebody he has just meant, never mind actually open up a little and expose his soft, vulnerable side.

Occasionally Kurt would sneak a look at Methos, curiosity lighting his face. Methos automatically dismissed the thought that Kurt would recognize him. The last time the immortal had seen Kurt was when he foisted him off on a group of Gypsies in central Europe when he was a new born infant. There was no way Kurt could remember him.

The doorbell rang, which at three a.m. in Sunnydale was never a good sign. With everything Methos knew; vampires didn't usually go door to door, but everything being equal, and this being Sunnydale, he wasn't willing to discount anything.

The last time he had been in the area, four hundred and fifty years ago, Sunnydale hadn't even been a dull glimmer in anyone's eye. The Native Americans told him tales of the haunted woods, and being the curious creature that he was, just had to investigate. The land was beautiful, pristine, just as all of North America had been at the time; but there seemed to be something extra in this little piece of the world.

During the daytime.

At night it was a different story. The nightmares he had in this town had been the worst he has ever experienced in his life. It was as if everyone he had ever killed, wronged in the slightest way, were haunting him. He was losing so much sleep that at one point; he had begun to see people that he killed centuries, millennium earlier while he was awake. He would actually hold conversations with them; sometimes for hours on end. It didn't end until he was halfway across the continent.

It was an experience he wasn't likely to forget.

Ever since then he has kept tabs on the area, never coming back personally, but sending agents to scout out the land. When the Spanish started settling the region, it became known as "La Boca de Infierno" "The Mouth of Hell" and was avoided with a religious fervor. It wasn't until a hundred years ago that he heard of a town, Sunnydale, being founded here. The person responsible was a man by the name Richard Wilkins. The only reason Methos remembered that was because the same man was still Mayor a hundred years later; he tried being clever going with Mayor Richard Wilkins the second and the third, but it was really laughable to someone who has been alive for five thousand years. He had disappeared, supposedly killed, when the local high school exploded during graduation just shy of two years ago.

He stood up, motioning everyone to stay quiet. Picking up Joe's gun, Methos used his body to shield the weapon from sight as he moved to the door. Reaching out with his other senses, the vague anxiety he felt lessened only slightly. Methos wondered if Rossi had finally been ordered to pick him up, or if Lt. Col. was just going to shoot him and be done with it. That scenario was far down the realm of possibilities though; Rossi was too much, by the book type of a soldier.

One thing Methos found odd was the lack of Wolfe's presence. If this was a S.H.I.E.L.D. operation Methos figured all the agents in the area would be outside the door, but as far as he can tell Rossi is the only member of the unit outside. Of course the rest of the unit was made up of humans, and they were rather hard to differentiate from one another. With this being the town's suburb there were a lot of humans around so it made picking out individuals all but impossible; not that he knew any members personally.

Methos pulled the door open, a too pleasant smile on his face as he looked out. "Special Agent Rossi… what an unexpected surprise?" He said insincerely. "I'd invite you in, but I think I'd prefer to see a search warrant first."

"Shove it," Rossi snapped as he reached out and shoved the door open. He started forward and stopped feeling the muzzle of a gun planted in his ribs. At this distance small arms fire wouldn't penetrate the body armor he wore, still there was no need to give away a potential advantage.

"Until I know exactly what it is you want here Rossi. You don't put one foot across that threshold." Kurt was inside and it hadn't been that long since Stryker's Mutant Extinction Agenda. S.H.I.E.L.D. might not have been directly involved with Stryker, but they were a branch of the government that had conveniently looked the other way. If he wasn't mistaken - and he normally wasn't - Kurt was still wanted for an attempted presidential assassination. Not something a government goon squad was going to overlook.

A red dot appeared on Methos' chest. "I really think we should talk inside," he suggested levelly looking at the immortal's chest.

Methos followed Rossi's gaze; easily spotting the little red dot. With vague disinterest Methos brushed his shirt off; only it didn't dislodge the speck of red light. "In that case, come on in," he said stepping aside. He thumbed the gun's safety and ejected the clip; then he dropped the gun into the bamboo umbrella holder.

Entering the house Rossi surveyed the interior. Aside from a few pieces of tribal art that caught his eye nothing stood out. The furnishings were rather mundane, the sort you would find at one of those discount hardware superstores; such as Lowes and Home Depot. It all had that pre-fabrication feel to it.

"What do you want?" Methos asked once the door was closed.

"Aside from a decent home cooked meal every now and then?" Rossi said looking into the living room. Amanda and Joe were still sitting in the same seats as when Methos went to answer the door. Kurt and the android of Buffy were both gone. "Is putting scum like you in a cell… Or in the ground."

Amanda stood up, her body relaxed and tense at the same time, as she inched towards archway between the pallor from the foyer. Rossi instantly categorized her as a threat. Of course that was where he categorized most people; even someone like Joe Dawson.

It was all a matter of degrees. The most dangerous person wasn't even in the room, but Rossi was sure Nightcrawler was nearby. The man wasn't known for abandoning his friends.

"So much hostility…" Methos observed noting the look of disappointment the flashed in Rossi's eyes. "You should really think about reducing your stress level. Take the kids to Disney Land Europe, or something?"

"Where's Nightcrawler?"

A confused furrow creased Methos' brow. "Wish I could help you Rossi, but I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about."

Rossi moved quickly, like a well oiled machine, grabbed Methos by the arm and easily forced the immortal around to slam him into the wall. He twisted his arm savagely while pressing his face into the drywall. "I don't have time to play games with you Pierson. One of my men is missing… If he isn't dead already I mean to get him back."

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Methos gritted out shallowly. He could get out of the hold easily enough. Only there was no point. He wanted Rossi to believe he had the advantage; so he stayed his hand.

Amanda closed the distance between them, but didn't intercede. She knew Methos could handle the situation, but she was curious to find out why he would allow it in the first place. Methos always micromanaged; the oldest man alive didn't seem happy unless he controlled - as much as possible - every situation he was in.

"I'll do what I can to help you find your friend," Kurt's words drifted down from the ceiling.

Rossi looked up, his face too blank. The blue skin mutant had almost completely vanished in the shadows and the Lt. Col. had completely missed him when his gaze swept the room less than a minute ago. The only parts visible now were his yellow eyes. With them as guide post, Rossi was easily able to glimpse the rest of his body.

With ease Kurt swung himself around and dropped lightly to the floor below. "I don't know how much help I'll be… Logan's the tracker not me."

Releasing Pierson with a slight shove, Rossi took a small step away from him. Keeping one eye on him, another on Wagner, and a third on Amanda and Joe he said, "We've already got a fix on his location. We just need someone who can get in and got out before…"

Kurt's slight headshake brought Rossi to a stop. "I'm sorry, but I need to see where I'm going in order to teleport there. 'Porting in blind… I could end up inside a wall, the floor, underneath a lamp shade."

"You don't have to worry about that, we can get you close enough… Provide surveillance photos. Whatever it takes to get you in," Rossi guaranteed.

A wane smile - at least Rossi thought it was wane – spread slowly across his lips. "In that case… how can I refuse?"

"If it's not a breach of national security, just which member of your flock did you misplace?" Methos inquired a little too friendly.

A quick, not too friendly, look at Pierson and Rossi said a single word. "Wolfe."

Amanda felt her blood freeze. Her entire body seemed to be floating in some frozen tabula waiting for the moment to break. A wave crashing into the shore. She had never forgiven herself for what she had done, but put in that same situation, with those same choices to be made, and she knew she would make the same choices; life was too precious a gift to waste. She knew that as long as her and Nick were alive there was always the chance he would forgive her.

"Nick Wolfe?" She finally asked.

Rossi shifted his gaze more fully to Amanda. The woman was beautiful; exotic and exquisite and alluring. Her clothes, while made of fine silk, looked to be worn more for comfort than for fashion. "Nick certainly seems to know some rather interesting people?"

"I'm going with you," Amanda informed him taking his answer for conformation.

His glare intensified on her. "I'm not going into an operation with a single person I can't trust," he replied stiffly.

Amanda stepped forward. Tall for a woman, she was nearly able to look Rossi in the eye. She brought the full force of her will to bear, directing it at Rossi. She didn't take another step towards him, but the Lt. Col. suddenly felt as if he were standing alone; small and naked before a charging elephant. "I don't recall giving you a choice."


	15. Chap 9: Miracle Part 4

**Chapter Nine: Miracle – Part Four**

The silence was a welcomed relief to Spike as he stood some distance from the rundown motel, soaking up the frigid night air. He could almost feel the darkness seeping into him.

It felt good, like a reprieve, to be away from everyone for just a few minutes; even Buffy and Dawn. Crammed like they had been in that cramped little RV – sardines had more space – with no food and listening to the strong, vibrant beating of seven healthy hearts and unable to satisfy his thirst… worst, having no desire to slack his cravings. It had been a more insidious torment then anything Drusilla had ever done to him.

Almost anything…

Her shagging her precious Daddy every night with him close enough hear the creak of each bedspring, while he had been trapped in that damn chair. That had been the worst torment he had ever been forced to endure.

This though, this had been a close second.

Little fantasies had been popping in his head the entire last hour. It had gotten so bad he had even imagined draining that stupid git Harris.

In one room Buffy and Giles had their heads together attempting to figure out their next move. Unlike in the RV the pair were talking to everyone; listening to and taking suggestions from the entire group.

Everyone that didn't happen to be him at any rate.

None of that mattered to him. He would be wherever Buffy was in the end. At least that was what he told himself.

He growled lowly, to himself and then flicked his spent cigarette butt into the air. He had no concern for where it landed. There was nothing out here to burn anyway.

Harris and Maclay were spending a hefty chunk of Rupert's money with the pay per view channels; watching all the latest movies. A challenge to be sure when demon girl was constantly flipping to the Spice channel or the Playboy Network without a care for who was in the room, but they had somehow managed it. It was cloying with how domestic it had all become, and he had needed a break from that environment.

He inhaled slowly, relishing the cold air as it filled his dead lungs. He didn't need to breath, didn't need eat food or drink either, but he did all those things. And he did them with abandon, with a flare and a lust for life. There wasn't much of a point to being immortal, or even alive, if you were afraid to live life to the fullest.

Withdrawing a cigarette from his pack; Spike froze.

He sniffed the air.

It smelt like a stable was descending on them. He scanned the deep, starlight darkness. To him – to any vampire – it was dusk; more then bright enough to make out details at a distance.

"Bloody hell," he cursed softly.

In the distance – coming fast – was a veritable wall of armored knights on horseback. He stopped counting when he reached forty.

His expression hardened.

These were the type of odds he loved to face; situations he normally would have salivated over. The most fun he's had in the past quarter century – other then when he was taking on a slayer – was the fight he had a few years back in the Magic Box; him against a dozen or so vampires with the Slayer and the Magnificent Poof watching on.

That had been before the chip; not that the chip would have mattered against vampires. He still would have waded through them.

Humans…

That was a challenge for him. If he could fight them without wanting to turn them all into Kibble and Bits then he would have taken care of this little problem himself.

Not for the first time he wished Riley and his Nazi commandos were standing in front him so he could rip their throats out for sticking that damn chip his head. He would wish that the doctors were here, except they were all dead; killed by their own creation.

In Spike's opinion it was ironic justice served up in spades.

A regretful sigh escaped his lips as he lit his cigarette. He still had a little time before he needed to get back inside. Smoke billowed around his head as he exhaled. He turned and started back towards the motel with an easy stride. After half a dozen steps he flicked his spent cigarette into what passed for a clump of sparse weed.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Thumb and middle finger rubbed tired eyes. A restless sigh slid past Bobby's lips. The young man didn't know how Professor Xavier – or any of the other teachers – were able to deal with some of the younger teenagers; not that he was much older then them. A few months at best.

"Guys…" he began looking up at the group of teenagers that ranged in age from thirteen to fifteen that stood in front of him. "… Sunnydale," he exhaled again, "it isn't like we're going on a vacation." He finished sounding completely exasperated. He found it completely unfair that Marie had left him up here to deal with this problem; not that she knew there was a problem.

"None of us thought you were," Rhane Sinclair – a thirteen year old Scottish Lycanthrope – answered before anyone else.

The youngster speaking up caught Bobby off guard. It shouldn't have. While Rhane was quite and introspective, a devout Catholic; she was also known for speaking her mind.

It was simply that with the company she was in Bobby had thought one of the dominant personalities; like Roberto DaCosta – a fifteen year old Brazilian solar converter – or Jubilation Lee – a fourteen year old Chinese American plasma hurler – would do the talking. As far as Bobby was concerned they had done more then enough already.

The three of them; along with James Jonathan Proudstar – a sixteen year old Apache warrior possessing superior physical gifts – Danielle Moonstar – a fifteen year old Cheyenne psychic who could make people see either their worst fears or greatest dreams – Samuel Zachery Guthrie – a fourteen year old boy from the back woods of Kentucky who generated a kinetic blast field that gave him the ability to fly while protecting him from harm – and Katherine Pryde – a thirteen year old Jewish girl from an affluent Chicago suburb who could become intangible – had gathered together and demanded to accompany him and Marie to Sunnydale.

"Sunnydale is dangerous…"

"All the more reason to have somebody watching your back," Proudstar said. At sixteen the Native American towered over everybody else in the room. Along with his physical gifts James was a natural and instinctive fighter.

"He's right," Roberto added. It was strange to think that somebody with such a slight build was a living powerhouse. Fully charged the young heir was capable of rending steel like it was tissue paper.

"Its not that I don't want you guys with us… heck, I wished Professor X along with all the X-Men were here, but they're not…" He took a breath and filled his voice with as much confidence as he could muster before saying, "people are going to get hurt, maybe even killed and I'm not going to put you guys in the line of fire."

"But it's all right for you and Marie?" Katherine, Kitty – as everyone called the super genius – asked. The chestnut haired brunette's long limbs gave her a gangly stork like appearance. With the exception of the Professor, Bobby didn't know anybody as smart as her. Four years his junior, Kitty was already a grade ahead. She seemed to gobble up knowledge with the same insatiable appetite that she scarfed up her cornflakes with in the morning; absorbed through osmosis, or something nearly identical to it.

The last thing Bobby wanted to do was get into a debate with Kitty. He knew he would lose. So instead of debating her; he simply said, "we're X-Men."

Kitty came back with the most elegant argument he had ever heard. "So?"

"Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only ones that care about Mr. Logan and Mr. Wagner," Rhane said sounding mildly miffed. An accomplishment of some magnitude as far as Bobby knew.

"She's right," James, never shy about making his opinion known, said. "Kurt and Logan have done a lot to help all of us." Not as strong as Roberto when he was fully charged, James' strength didn't wane with the setting sun or expenditure of his energy reserves.

"Just because we're not X-Men doesn't mean we don't care," Jubilation added. Small pops of released plasma crackle from between her fingers; an indication of just how upset she was. Unless a person was deaf, blind, and stupid everyone knew when Jubilee was in a foul mood. She had no qualms about letting everyone exactly how she felt. For a wonder her leather duster, a glaringly bright yellow that was almost as obnoxious as the girl herself, was nowhere to be seen.

The objections and complaints came in fast and furious. Too fast for Bobby to make out any one. Right now he seriously wished that everyone had a place to go during spring break. It was selfish and he knew it, he felt bad for it, but it didn't change the fact. He wanted a moment of peace and one of quite, and he hoped they both arrived at the same time.

"All right!" He shouted silencing everyone. "But if you get yourselves killed, then you can explain to Professor Xavier how it happened."

Bobby flinched back slightly at the shout that erupted from everyone's throat at once. With the way they were going on; cheering and hooting, he thought he had just told each one they had won the lottery… or aced one of the Professor's exams.

"Hey," Marie said from the doorway making her presence known to everyone in the room. She had heard the raucous three rooms away and had rushed to see what was going on. "What's up guys?"

Bobby saw Rogue standing in the doorway, that sassy glint in her eyes. Like it always does when he sees her; his breath caught in his throat, his heart skipped a beat, and he couldn't help but think just how beautiful this woman before him was; and to think that she felt the same way about him. He couldn't be any luckier if he tried.

Turning back to the younger mutants in the room Bobby shouted, "Get your stuff together…" Since he was in charge he decided it was about time to let them know it. "…we leave in thirty minutes whether you're ready or not." If he had to put up with them, he wasn't going to put with them.

The youngsters scattered like startled quail leaving Bobby and Marie alone. A slight frown creased her lips as she watched them rush up the stairs to their rooms. "I take it we got company coming along?"

Bobby shrugged sheepishly as he said, "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Hopefully Logan will be able to handle them."

Marie smiled as she took hold of his hand; her clothed fingers intertwined with his bare flesh. She wished she could actually feel his skin, touch him and not absorb his life. She had once, for an all too brief moment they had shared a single kiss.

It had been nirvana.

It had lasted an eternity.

It ended too quickly.

It was the sweetest moment of her life.

It was the most bitter.

One day she hoped to be able to feel that again. Someday. With training. Lots and lots of training.

"Hopefully we won't spend the entire trip listening to, are we there yet?" She said with a playful smile.

"Just hope that's the least of our worries?" He answered with deadly seriousness.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike had seriously miscalculated. Angel had always said his cocky arrogance, or was it his brash overconfidence – he doesn't quite remember – would be his downfall. As much as he hated to admit it, the blonde vampire can't help but think that the Great Poof – as he often referred to his grandsire – had been right.

The Knights had actually managed to get an advance force close to the motel. He had no idea how they had done it; unless it there was some kind of magic running amok. Something he wouldn't rule out.

What he did know was that he had his hands full at the moment. Fighting five Knights and not thinking violent thoughts was all but impossible for him. He kept himself from acting upon his desires, but sparks of pain still flashed through his skull at an almost constant pace.

Spike ducked and spun; somehow tripping one of the knights while shoving him into one of his armored pals. He stumbled back, falling to the ground while clutching his head. A sword sliced through the air where his head had been. He latched onto the Knight's arm and jerked him forward, sending him crashing to the ground; a cloud of dust spraying up in his wake.

A nearly silent groan whispered past his lips as he rolled over onto the broken pavement of the walk. "Where the bloody hell is everyone?" He demanded harshly in a soft voice.

Even with the television up as load as it was, Spike had expected the Slayer to be out here with the swoosh of the first sword stroke. _Total stranger and the bleeding Slayer's there in a heartbeat… Good ole Spike though she leaves him blowing in the breeze_.

He surged to his feet as a broad head shaft punched into his gut; just above his right hip. Twisting he caught the sword thrust; his opposite hand grabbing the Knights wrist. He continued his spin and released the knight sending him flying into his companions.

Through pain filled eyes Spike saw that four of the five Knights were on the ground in various stages of disarray.

The fifth Knight wasn't.

Spike lunged at the door; a heavy body crashed into him throwing off his stride. He managed to catch his balance and toss the Knight away. A brilliant flash of pain exploded inside his head. He stumbled back clutching his skull in a vice like grip.

Allowing his instincts to guide him, Spike managed to find the door. He ripped it off its hinges and tossed it back the way he had come hoping some of the Knights were in its path. He could still vent his rage on inanimate objects.

"On your feet!" Spike roared into the room as his vision began to clear. He winced at the volume of the television. Only Harris was in sight. _The other bloody room_.

"What the?" Xander murmured sleepily as he rolled off the bed.

_Git would sleep through his own evisceration_, Spike mused amusedly. "Move you stupid pillock!" Spike shouted over the television. _Wonder no one heard a thing_.

A Knight crashed into Spike's back. The pair went down in a heap; short, jerky punches were exchanged. The Knight rolled to his feet facing Xander, Spike only a heartbeat behind.

Only he was too far away to stop what was about to happen.

The Knight moved on Xander with methodical determination; sword poised… he struck, his blade – sharp as a razor – slid through Xander's chest. He gasped, clutching the Knight's forearm. Blood gurgled from his mouth as he dropped to his knees; the light, the life slowly faded from his eyes leaving them cold and dark.

Spike smiled fondly at the seen unfolding before. The knight jerked his sword from the husk that had been Xander and then roughly shoved the corpse out of his way.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Did anybody else hear that?" Buffy asked as she stood up.

"What," Willow answered. The other four girls gave similar responses.

"It sounded like something banged into the wall." Her voice was soft, as if she was speaking to herself. With as loud as Xander had the television in the other room even a shout sounded like a whisper. With her hearing she should have been able to hear a pin hit the floor two rooms away.

The five of them had decided that they needed a little girl time; though it had taken some doing to convince Anya who saw it as an opportunity to have many much needed orgasms with Xander. Her face, like everyone's was covered in a thick green paste, a simple t-shirt, far too large for her, acted as a nightgown; her fingernails, as well as toenails, had been freshly painted.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike gave his head a savage shake tossing off his most intoxicating fantasy. His greatest wish. In half a heartbeat it wouldn't be a fantasy. Harris would be dead for real.

Nobody would know.

There was no one else here; it's not like anybody would be able to blame him. After all, with the chip in his head it's not like he could have done anything to prevent it.

_Balls and bollix, Slayer'd blame me if the git got himself a paper cut_. He lunged forward, grabbed the Knight from behind and tossed him away as if he were a rag doll before falling to his knees with a scream. Once more he clutched his head.

The Knight's upper back hit the doorframe with enough force that he almost crashed through the wood. Instead he spun like a top – his feet exiting the room – as he bounced from one side to the other; his head hitting the wooden doorframe, it snapped back with a sickening thud and crunch as he dropped to the floor.

Xander stood still; planted to the ground as if he had taken root. He couldn't wrap his mind around what had just happened.

Spike saved his life.

It was surreal.

It didn't make sense.

Spike hated him.

Spike would have celebrated his death with a block party that would make Time Squares on New Year's Eve seem a small, intimate gathering of close friends.

Spike had saved his life.

Another figure loomed large in the doorway. "Kill them!" The giant of a Knight shouted.

"Move your ass you sodden git!" Spike roared coming to his feet. "Get the bloody Slayer!"

Three armored Knights pushed against each other, fighting each other to enter the room.

Xander came back to himself as if snapping out of a dream. There was blood oozing from Spike's ear. _Not a good sign_. He turned and made a beeline for the adjoining door. _Spike saved my life_?

"Come on… Blighters, the lot of yous. You want the bit… you can take her over my dust. If you got the stones?" Spike prepared himself; psyching himself up for what he knew was about to come.

He met the first Knight head on; shoved the pain deep down. He would pay for it later; his fight with Logan had shown him that. He brushed the man's sword arm aside with contemptuous ease, then reached out and snapped the man's neck. It was still like having a white hot poker shoved straight through his skull.

It threw his timing off and it was only through an act of desperation that he managed to throw himself out of the way of the second Knight's slicing sword. The reverse swing sliced open his shirt and blood swelled from the fresh cut across his chest.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Xander slammed into the door, forcefully pushing it open without bothering to turn the handle. It was only through her quick reflexes that Buffy avoided being pummeled by the door flying open. The music that had been muffled by the door and the volume of the television, was blaring at him full bore. It was as if he had been plunged head first into the heart of a heavy metal concert.

"Buffy!" Xander bellowed at the top of his lungs; fear and desperation heavy in his voice. He gave a startled yelp as he stumbled back at the grotesque sight before realizing what he was seeing. He shouldn't have been surprised, what else did a group of girls do when they got together except each other's nails and apply facial cleansing products that made them look like the Bride of Frankenstein. "The Knights," he said simply.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Spike grabbed the Knights wrist, pivoting under his upraised arm to move behind his adversary, and reversed his stroke. The blade cut deep into the knights midsection causing the man to double over in obvious pain before falling to the ground.

Spike only a moment behind him.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The look that glazed over Buffy's eyes made Xander take another step back. It was as close to pure animosity as he had ever seen before. None of the demons he has faced in the five years since he first meant Buffy had ever looked at him like that. She grabbed the rooms solitary chair; a stiff, high back piece of wooden furniture that she turned into so much kindling when she ripped it apart with her bare hands, leaving her holding two arm length pieces of solid wood.

Willow; being the closest one to the radio, quickly hit the off button throwing the room into near silence. A quartet of feminine voices filled the void as they asked rapid fire questions made indecipherable as they babbled all at once.

"The Knights," Xander gasped as Buffy brushed roughly pass him. "Spike… killed… one," he huffed sounding as if he had just run a marathon.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Buffy's right arm whipped back then forward releasing the wooden stave. It struck the Knight square in his forehead flipping him over backwards.

The fifth Knight gave a small start; either at Buffy's sudden appearance or just at her appearance. He raised his sword and charged…

Spike was laid out flat on his back. His right arm was still wrapped around a Knight's neck; his face driven into the thinly carpeted floor. The man's broken neck was obvious even without an up close examination. She could almost believe he was sleeping if she hadn't seen the blood seeping from his ear, the corner of his mouth and eyes and nostrils. She could have believed it if she didn't see him twitching.

… Buffy held her ground as she lifted her seething eyes.

If it wasn't such a mismatch it would have been gut wrenchingly hysterical. In his armor the man was close to a foot taller then her and nearly twice as wide through the hips, waist, and shoulders. With a roar on his lips he closed the distance between them.

Buffy didn't move. Not even when he swung; the sword descending upon her, seeking to cleave her flesh. It whistled as it sliced the air. The Knight smiled behind his face guard thinking he would be able to dispatch this girl with ease.

At the last possible moment Buffy moved; a lazy step forward that put her inside his guard. A step that was more of a blur to his eyes. She reach up with casual indifference and grabbed the hilt of his sword with her right hand, stopping its downward arc dead.

He grunted as his sword came to a sudden stop. Sweat beaded off his brow and his breathes came in labored gasps as he sucked in air. His muscles bulged and strained, his entire body shook with the effort.

The blade didn't move.

It didn't even quiver as Buffy held it steady.

With no visible effort she jerked the blade down pulling him off balance. A negligent flick of her wrist, and she slaps the flat of the blade against the side of his head. The man crumpled to the floor.

Willow followed Xander and Buffy from the one room into the other. Buffy stepped over the unconscious Knight as she crossed the room to the open doorway to peer into the darkness. "Fuck," she whispered to herself. Dozens of knights were bearing down on the motel; a cloud of dust rose into the sky behind them.

Buffy knew she could kill them all, probably without breaking much of a sweat. She could dust a dozen vampires in a quarter of a second; weak, pathetic vampires that didn't hunt, but even they were stronger, faster, more deadly then any human could ever hope to be. Overconfidence was normally their downfall.

She however didn't want to kill anybody. Not yet. Not if it could be avoided.

"Willow," Buffy called out hoping the redhead will have something up her sleeve.

Willow peaked over the blonde's shoulder. Her eyes widened a she asked, "think that's for us?"

"Unless there's a crusade around here nobody told us about?" Xander joked softly as he looked over both girls' heads.

Buffy glanced over her shoulder to spare Xander with an annoyed gaze. She knocked a broad head shaft out of the air while both Xander and Willow ducked back inside the room. A dozen more arrows thudded into the building. "Please tell me you can do something about that?" The tiny blonde inquired hopefully.

Tara entered the room in a rush, clutched to her chest was an evil looking book that radiated malignant darkness. She doesn't like the idea of using the spells contained within, most would leave a stain on the soul that would take years to wash away – if ever – but they are the only spells available that give them even a glimmer of hope at forestalling the coming confrontation.

She would have cast the spell herself, only she isn't strong enough. She lacks the raw power needed to harness the potent magic contained within. The only person she knew capable of successfully casting any of the spells was Willow. She knelt against he wall next to Willow. "Here," she said handing the book to her love.

Willow's eyes light up as she took the book. She flipped through the pages with a great deal of familiarity as she sat Indian style on the floor. She quickly finds what she is looking for. A sense of calm seemed to fill the young witch, her posture radiated power as her normally green eyes turned black.

"Anytime now," Buffy growled as the Knights closed rapidly on the motel.

"Enemies, fly and fall. Circling arms, raise a wall," she said raising her arms into the air. A brackish blue circle of light flared between her hands. It expanded outward quickly, Buffy felt a tingle as the light rushed through her.

It flared outward, a swarm of arrows crash into the expanding shield of light; splintered and washed away like flotsam caught in a wake. It solidified thirty feet away, forming a dome centered on the two rooms, as a score of Knights pulled up just in time, bringing their horses to a skidding stop.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Giles gingerly put his hand on the dome of solid light. "Bloody," he mumbled as he pressed against it to no avail. Twenty-five feet beyond the shimmering barrier was the back wall of the motel. Instead of occupying the same enclosure as both Xander and Spike for a moment longer then absolutely necessary, especially after their extended stay in the RV, the last thing he wanted was to spend a second longer with the bickering duo then he had to. Normally he would have spent the time discussing battle plans and strategies, but the girls' activities this night dictated he find something else to occupy his time and he decided on taking an extended walk, not a very wise decision on his part as it turned out.

Whatever had occurred that caused the girls to erect this shield had to be a serious challenge; enough so that Buffy felt sanctuary was preferable to her standard beat it until its dead attitude. Giles decided it would be prudent to follow her lead.

Since he knew there wasn't anyway that he could force his way through a barrier Willow had he created; the watcher quickly scanned his surroundings. There wasn't much to work with so he was going to have to be as inventive as possible.

His wasted youth, a bit more then half a decade spent loafing around London and its surrounding neighborhoods with Ethan Rayne and company, flashed through his mind. The magic he knew, while it wasn't as potent as Willow, could still be quite the nuisance if he played his cards right.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Surround this building!" Gregor shouted at his knights. "Bring me everyone that hasn't take sanctuary within this barrier." He turned and stalked towards several brown robed priests.

"An energy barrier… a most powerful one," the elder cleric said.

His scared cheek twitched. "I want this shield down!" He growled out his order.

"The witch's magic pales to the might of our god. The infidel's wall shall tumble before us," he avowed.

Gregor nodded, but doubted the priest's promise. He didn't doubt the shield would come down, or that it would be god's will, but it would be carried out through his hand. Not the priests' prayers.

The Key had chosen its allies well, a powerful witch, a slayer, and a vampire; but in doing so it had revealed its true nature. He was going to take great pleasure in seeing it destroyed once and for all.


	16. Chap 9: Miracle Part 5

**Chapter Nine: Miracle – Part Five**

Clack, clack, clack echoed through the large, nearly perfectly square shaped room as Glory paced the longer of the walls with little patience. She glanced to her left slightly, at Nick Wolfe who was splayed spread eagle on a large X that sat on a raised alcove that was cut into the stone wall. He was the key to finding her Key.

She turned to the right, her light colored eyes gazing belligerently at the thick stone wall. She walked pass the rising stone stairway with its wrought iron banister – its twin ran up the opposite wall –and headed towards the heavy oak door centered in the base of the massive terrace made of the same red and gray blocks as the rest of the room. At the back of the terrace a set of French doors opened onto a small balcony that overlooked a small pasture of green grass and the edge of fairly dense thicket.

Sabertooth squatted easily on the stone pillar at the top of the stairway. To the casual observer he seemed at ease. He itched to sink his claws back in Wolfe. If not for Glory's edict; that was exactly what he would be doing right now. She however didn't want to take any chances, if these immortals only had a finite number of resets… and with how quickly he had been using them up.

Fact was; Sabertooth was very bored and almost beyond the point of caring. He couldn't wait for Glory to be elsewhere so he could play with his new toy again. He was almost as much fun as that robot he had slowly dismantled the other night. Wolfe was more durable, but the robot had been more fun; her fear was…

Intoxicating.

His gaze shifted to Danvers as Glory strode back up the room. The clack of her wooden flats was becoming annoying. He breathed in deeply wanting nothing more then to show Glory what fear was.

Danvers understood what it was like to be a good soldier; how to wait when there was nothing else to do but wait. She leaned against the stone wall just to the left of the large alcove giving the impression of dozing lightly while she was watched everyone. Carol was paying close attention to her allies. The pair had been made for each other; one was even more psychotic then the other.

In her head she was going over scenarios if she came into conflict with either Glory or Sabertooth. Creed she knew she could take. The problem was keeping him down.

Glory though.

Carol knew nothing about the woman other then the citizens of Latveria, peasants that they were, believed she was a god. She had quite a grip; that much Carol was willing to give Glory. That however didn't make her anything other then a very strong woman.

She could name a dozen or more people just as strong, if not stronger and that didn't count the green brute the media had dubbed the Hulk.

A fight between her and Glory was unlikely; Lord Doom had been very specific. Unless Glory attempted to betray them, she was only to take possession of the Key after Glory had returned to her dimension. Lord Doom left it to her discretion on what action should be taken if Glory double crossed them.

Knowing Lord Doom as well as she did; the reason he left it to her discretion was because he already knew what she would do and approved.

Nick moaned softly from her side. His clothes were in tatters; sweat cut rivulets in the blood and grim covering his flesh. The man had been ill used during his captivity. When Glory put a stop to Creed's fun Carol had been as surprised as the psychotic mutant, but even he wasn't about to cross Glory. Not yet anyway. Victor however looked like a cat that was planning on eating the canary once the master was out for the night.

A small wooden door opened on the right side of the room. Glory came to a complete stop, her eyes boring maniacally into the specialist. Creed seemed to relax, though it was hard to tell with the mutant.

Zedilis, one of the best electronics men she has ever worked with, stepped into the room. He glanced at Carol and waited for her nod before saying, "It's ready." In his hand he held a standardize scanner about the size of a palm pilot.

Glory noticed the exchange and fumed internally. "Are you sure?" She demanded.

Carol stood losing her relaxed attitude as she matched Glory's stance. "Something you'll learn about Lord Doom and his people… They don't talk unless they're sure of what they're saying. If the man says its working, its working."

"Fine… its working," Glory growled out promising herself that before she returned home Carol Danvers would die by her hand. If it weren't for those damn androids she would be dead already. She really hated those androids; they allowed Danvers to speak and act with impunity, something no human has ever been able to do. "Let's see it work?"

This time Carol nodded before Zedilis looked in her direction. She moved closer to the tech as he began explaining the machines function. "It's your basic scanner, on off… there's our boy." He pointed at the screen showing Glory a small green blip that indicated Nick Wolfe. "Sabertooth said there were a couple more of these immortals in town, so if we expend our zone…" He manipulated the controls skillfully. "…we get two more contacts. This one…"

"Has to be one of the men," Creed snarled. His impatience was beginning to gnaw through his placid veneer. "Other one must be the skirt."

"Lets widen our search, start with two hundred miles… Twenty-seven, but nothing even approaching Sunn…"

"Set it as far as the Missouri," Carol ordered. "If they hopped a plane they're already out of that things range and we'll need to modify the DS-7's radar."

"Nevada," Zedilis said excitedly. "It's massive."

Glory grabbed the scanner from him. Her eyes lit up big as saucers. "My Key," she murmured in awe; like she was in the throes of rapture. In a blur faster then anyone can follow, Glory is gone; up the right staircase, out the French doors, and disappeared in the darkness beyond.

"Fuck," Carol snapped. She was furious with herself for not anticipating Glory's rash actions. She had seen how restless the smaller woman was.

Creed smiled as he dropped softly to the stone floor below. "'Bout time she skinned on up out of here."

"Get the plane prepped… I want us airborne, two minutes." Carol turned on Creed as he stalked up the hall. She stepped right in front of him. He sniffed the air, noted the lack of fear on her scent. "Where the hell you think your going?"

"Out of my way frai…"

"Get on the plane," Carol ordered.

Creed growled low in his chest as he towered over Carol. "You go chase the bitch down, I haven't finished my conversation yet."

Carol smiled sweetly at him. She launched herself into the air with the speed and suddenness of a meteor exploding into the Earth's atmosphere. Her fist slammed into his chin with the force of a scud missile. Creed's head snapped back, he flew upwards, back arching. Carol grabbed him by his ankle, spun in midair, and hurled him at the thick stonewall at the far end of the room.

The stone wall shook and cracked with the force of the impact. Creed slid bonelessly to the floor. "So glad you said that," Carol said chirpily as she floated back down. She spun in the air as she descended. "What are all of you staring at? Get moving!" She pointed at Creed, "Shackle that thing…" After a seconds thought she added, "Inhibitor collar as well… and muzzle him." She pointed at Wolfe as her foot lightly touched the ground. "And you," she shouted at Jinx, "See to it he's secured in my room."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"You have no idea what you're dealing with," Kurt's voice floated out of the darkness. His German accent gave his words a gothic feel. He was crouched low on top of a stone outcropping that was shaded by the overhanging branches of two oak trees.

If not for the fact that his yellow eyes stared out at him, Rossi wouldn't have seen the mutant only a few feet in front of him. Still the soldier held his ground without flinching. In a voice full of confidence he said, "I'm willing to take that chance."

"I've seen what she can do to strong men Rossi. Men stronger then you… As long as Glory is in that building, you don't have a chance of getting yourself out alive, let alone Nick," Amanda informed Rossi. Despite her words Amanda's tone was like honeyed wine with her last statement coming across more as a plaintive whine.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned hard eyes on the smaller woman as he said, "If you think I'm leaving my man in there…" He cut himself off taking a deep breath. "I've seen what's left of people when Creed gets through with them. The lucky ones don't live very long."

Suddenly the back door doesn't open so much as it vaporizes in an instant as something disappeared to the east.

"Glory's gone," Methos said from under the shielding branches of the oak tree. His eyes remained close as he leaned against the thick bole. His voice sounded strained as he spoke. "You're boy is still in there, a dozen other enhanced humans, Creed… Someone else, a candle compared to Glory, but I've never felt a human with so much power."

Amanda turned concerned eyes on the oldest Immortal. "Adam?" She asked worriedly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Methos said shrugging her hand off.

"Good to hear," Rossi said insincerely. He wouldn't be disappointed if the terrorist got himself killed. "Now that Glory's gone… Since the back door's been left wide open, it doesn't…"

"The hell with that," Amanda snarled stepping up to Rossi. She shoved a hard finger into his chest forcing the man to take a step back. "Nick Wolfe was my friend long before he became a member of your team. If you think for one minute I'm going to entrust his safety to the people that let him get captured in the first place, you need to get your head out of your ass and start living in the real world." She hit him the chest with a solid palm heel strike forcing him back another step.

She harrumphed in a most satisfied manner before smoothly pivoting. Two strides brought her to the rocky overhang. She stepped off in stride dropping soundlessly to the ground fifteen feet below.

"Fierce, isn't she?" Rossi mumbled to himself.

Kurt smiled at the man, not that he was able to see it since the blue skin mutant was covered in shadows. His eyes danced with his amusement though. With a soft bamf and a cloud of sulfurous smoke he was gone.

Methos moved to the overhang just as silently as Amanda. He smirked at Rossi and said, "You have no idea." He turned smoothly and stepped forward dropping the fifteen feet without a sound.

Rossi shook his head. He put his hand to his ear piece and said, "Bravo one to Bravo team. Our hostess has left the back door open."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The front door clicked open as Scott pulled his key from the lock and pushed the door wide. The foyer was dark, which in itself was an oddity. No matter how he strained his ears he couldn't hear anything. He knew his hearing wasn't close to Logan's, but the mansion had never been this silent in all the years he's been here.

So many people lived in this venerable mansion that something was always going on. People were coming and going at all hours of the day and night. Children were always underfoot and teenagers were rushing all over. Even in the earliest hours of the morning somebody was up and about; preparing breakfast, watching television, working on school projects, or just aimlessly wondering the halls.

Scott pushed the door shut and dropped his shoulder bag out of the way. "Hello!" He called out. His voice reached down the halls and then echoed back to him. Feeling edgy after everything that happened with Stryker, Scott murmured, "This isn't normal," as he knelt down and retrieved his combat visor. After tightly closing his eyes he slipped off his ruby quartz sunglasses and settled his visor into place.

He moved like a special forces trained combat veteran as he made his way into the mansion determined to find out what happened to everyone. It didn't take him long to find the clue he was looking for.

In the first floor pallor he found a note left by Bobby and Marie taped to the flat screen television. He quickly read it and cursed explosively as he darted out of the pallor and raced for the emergency control room.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Wind kicked up a small dust cloud. It swirled for a moment before being dispersed as it ran into the energy barrier that enclosed a large portion of the run down motel. More then a hundred people, closer to a hundred and fifty surrounded the building, most of them wore armor; either chain mail or plate mail with the crest of their holy order blazoned on their red tunics.

The other group was an odd assortment. They ranged in age from thirteen to sixty-seven; the youngest was a girl with dark red hair, big brown eyes, braces, and two cheeks full of freckles. The black man who owned the motel; with his sagging cheeks and sad eyes, and snow white hair was the oldest. Fourteen other people ranged across the ethnicity; Anglo Saxon, African American, Asian, Hispanic, Native American.

Each person was blind folded, gagged, knelt on the ground half a dozen feet in front of the barrier, and were bound hand and foot. Most whimper in fear, a few slump in recognition, while some struggle in vain against their captors.

"Slayer!" Gregor shouted at the barrier and the motel beyond. "You have one minute left slayer before the first of these… Innocent bystanders has to pay for your sins."

Buffy stood in the threshold of the doorway, a cold hard look in her eyes. "You think I'm going to turn my sister over to you for a bunch of people I don't know?"

"She must be destroyed!" He growled in savage irritation.

"Not so long as blood flows in my veins," she hissed.

"You can't believe your witches barrier can hold forever," Gregor gloated. "Eventually it will fall, and we are hundreds strong while you are but a pitiful few. You will lose and the key will be destroyed as it must. Give it to me now and you can save these few."

Buffy walked across the gravelly lot to stand just beyond his touch; safe behind the shield. "I'll kill each and every Knight you have here, every knight in the world if that's what it takes to keep my sister safe. You, I can keep her safe from," she warned in a low voice.

Gregor gazed at Buffy's hard, scathing eyes. "You kill us all," he said with a nod. He dropped his head almost to his chest as he walked behind the row of hostages. He stopped behind the young girl and looked back up at Buffy. "No, I don't think you do… I don't think you have the conviction…" He moved swiftly drawing his dagger and jerking the girl's head back.

Buffy jumped forward and smashed head first into the barrier. It shimmered with the force of Buffy's impact. "No!" She screamed.

The razor sharp blade sliced across her throat opening a wound from one ear to the other. A gurgling sound escaped as air and blood gushed from the mortal wound as she thrashed helplessly for a few seconds.

"No!" Buffy shouted from her knees.

A torrent of blood flowed down her front, turning the perched ground into a sea of red. A clamor rose from the other hostages.

Tears streaked down Buffy's face as she smashed her fist into the barrier. It rippled outward. "You bastard," she hissed fighting to reign her emotions back in. "Bastard," she growled again. "I'll kill you!"

Gregor snorted derisively as he said, "So you keep saying, but still you sit behind your witches shield… Force me to kill such a young girl," he motioned with his dagger pointing at the people's back.

A tingling sensation flashed along Buffy's bones. It was a surprise to her, but a more then welcomed relief.

"Who's next slayer? Which person…"

Head lights crested over the horizon bathing the black top ahead of it with harsh light. Gregor turned on his men. Anger filled his voice as he roared, "How'd they get past the centuries?" He grabbed the nearest knight. "Bring them to me," he hissed shoving the man away.

"You're in so much trouble now," Buffy whispered as she stood back up. Her eyes still locked on the blood pooling around the edge of Willow's shield.

The car veered off the black top, tires kicked up a spray of dirt and gravel as it bore straight down upon the Knights encampment. Somebody was standing on the hood, riding the car like a surfer rides an ocean wave.

With the lights coming straight for her Buffy couldn't see much. She squinted, but the little she could make out didn't help her. She knew though, had felt him the second he had come within range. Logan was in that car.

Her father was coming.

"You're going to die tonight Gregor." The vow rolled off Buffy's tongue in a whisper.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Scott burst into the emergency control room, his visor shielded eyes scanned the control panels, quickly looked over the monitors. He rushed over to the panel and hit the emergency shut off, killing the modified SR-71 Black Bird's powerful engines. He slowly let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Now to find out what the hell is going on?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Three men entered the room through the shattered French doors with crisp military precision. Their clothing was the latest in covert ops black fatigues, made from the latest innovations in Reed Richard's unstable molecule – patent pending. The were resistant to just about every known form of energy out there – within factory specified guidelines – and the stuff would stop a twelve gauge shotgun blast at point blank range. As long as you didn't mind the bruises it was great for keeping you alive.

Soft pffts filled the air as the trio cut down the six scabrous demons in the large stone room with methodical efficiency. "Main hall is secured," Rossi voice came over the stylized micro sized head gear.

A soft bamf filled the air and a grey cloud of smoke enveloped an area of the ceiling as Kurt teleported into the room avoiding the small cluster around the door. Rossi's automatic rifle swiveled up to cover the German born mutant, but Rossi held his fire. "Nothing from this angle," Kurt informed the soldiers with a frown.

He stared at the bodies littering the floor with distaste. He understood why they came in with a shoot first, ask questions second attitude; with an unknown amount of time it was necessary, but he was loathed to accept it. As far as he was concerned death should always be the last option used, and only after every other had been pursued and failed. If people simply judged one another solely on how each other looked; he wasn't far off from joining the demons on the floor below; and it would be men like Rossi and his commandoes that put him there.

_What about Angel_? His conscience taunted him. _Does he deserve your forgiveness_, _or will you send him to the hell he escaped from_? _What about Stefan_? _What gave you the right to play god and decide his fate_? With a soft snarl he tore his eyes away from the carnage below.

"What's the matter demon?" The man to Rossi's right taunted. "Figure this'd be right up your ally."

"Shut your trap Garis," Marcels snapped.

"This way," Methos said entering the room through the shattered French doors. Unconcerned with the noise as chunks of glass crunched loudly under his tread. He headed straight for the stone stairs to his right; his hard soled boots clack loudly as he takes the stairs one at time.

He glanced at the bodies with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. They weren't dead, but they weren't alive either; it was like they were in stasis, just waiting to be revived.

If Rossi had asked him, Methos would have told him exactly how many people were in the building, where they were, and who had left.

Amanda watched Methos closely as the world's oldest Immortal descended the stairs. It was becoming apparent that he had refined his quickening. When all this was over she was going to have a long talk with him; see if she could convince him to reveal some of his secrets.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Logan jumped off the hood of the blue sedan, his claws sliced through steel and flesh like they were nothing more then soft clay as he drove them into the knight's chest; tackling him clean off the horse's back.

The pair land in the dirt, the man was dead before he ever hit the ground, another knight comes up behind him attempting to take him unaware. Logan spun; his left arm rising, claws cut through the knight's arm just above the wrist. The knight screamed as his hand flew through the air, sword still clutched in a death like grip. The claws extending from his right hand sliced deep into his chest and cut clean across.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Willow!" Buffy shouted back towards the motel. The redhead appeared instantly. "Let me out," she ordered.

"Are you s…"

"Do it!" The slayer roared. "Logan, Faith, and Duncan are out there. Now open a hole in this shield.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Faith kicked the passenger door open smashing the steel door into the gelding's flanks taking the horse's legs out from under him. The dark haired slayer leapt from the racing vehicle. She came up on her knees almost on top of the knight trap under his horse. Looking down on him she took a deep breath and then slammed her fist into his helmeted head knocking him out cold.

She looked up spotting her next target, came to a full sprint in three strides and leapt again, this time covering more then fifteen feet. Faith landed on the back of horse right behind its rider. Contemptuously she hurled him away like he was nothing more then a rag doll she was bored with.

Grabbing the reigns Faith hopped into the saddle. Jerking them viscously she drew the horse into a tight circle as she selected her next target. Once she found him, she booted the mare's ribs and charged another mounted knight.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A soft moan drifted up from Spike as he tried to rise from the mattress. A small hand held him in place easily. He growled listlessly as his eyes open to mere slits and glared up at Tara. Softly he hissed, "Sod off Glenda…"

"You don't scare me Spike," Tara answered firmly.

"Should, specially now," his eyes drifted towards the front room.

Tara followed his gaze and shuddered internally. The thought that Spike's chip didn't keep him from killing people was chilling. That he hadn't killed anyone in more then a year was a sign of his potential though.

Once again he pushed his way up, but again was held in place by Tara. "Slayer needs me out there," he whispered hoarsely.

"Buffy," Tara emphasized her name, "needs you to rest so you can protect Dawn."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Duncan kicked out, the sole of his foot shattering the knight's knee cap. He twisted, his katana swinging up deflecting the double edge long sword. He slashed out knocking away a third knight's clumsy attack. He cut back opening up the knight's arm with a long gash. With a smooth pivot he smashed the katana's ivory hilt into the second knight's face. He heard bone crunch upon contact and the man dropped to the ground.

With a mind of its own the katana swiped up over his head neatly halting a bulky knight's downward stroke. Duncan pivoted back the way he had come, dipping his sword allowing the two blades to slide along each other; sparks lit the night as the Immortal's blade bit into the softer steel.

Inside the knight's guard Duncan braced the back edge of his Katana with his shoulder, dropped to a knee, and spun. His blade cut through chain mail armor and flesh with equal ease. The knight collapsed to his knees, desperately trying to hold his innards in.

Duncan rose back up, still spinning, his katana constantly moving as was he; striking like a viper as it deflected the numerous blades trying to reach his flesh. In the blink of an eye he was among them; spinning and twirling and moving, dancing in their midst. A deadly dance as his sword flicked out; where it touched men they bled…

And died.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Methos ranged ahead of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. They were cautious men and didn't want leave something behind them. He didn't worry about that since he knew what was around them… A whole lot of nothing.

A pleasant surprise as far as he was concerned. The thought of facing Creed, Glory, or that other presence he had sensed made him want to empty his stomach.

Something was going to have to be done about Creed. Now that he knew about Immortals; none of them were going to be safe. And being Creed's version of a live action toy wasn't a future he was anticipating too fondly.

He stopped in front of the last door. Nick was on the other side along with one of those hideous looking creatures. Drawing his sword he stared at the wooden structure.

Suddenly he kicked out knocking the door in. Smoothly he stepped inside the room leveling his large blade at the scabrous demon huddled in the corner. There was a gleam in its eyes that made the creature look like it wanted to cause some type of trouble.

Methos stepped forward and slid his blade into the creature's shoulder. He disliked the use of needless killing, unless necessary for his continued survival; inflicting pain to emphasize a point was another story entirely. "If you're smart you'll keep your mouth shut and give me no grief. The men that are with me would just as soon grind you into sausage, capiche?" The demon nodded fiercely. "Good, now I'm to take Wolfe out of here and you're going to stay in your corner like a good little bug-a-boo." The demon nodded again; quickly, emphatically.

Methos removed the blade as he nodded to himself. "Good," he said sheathing the blade inside his duster.

"Is he here?" Kurt asked Methos looking down from the other side of the threshold.

Methos pointed at the bed and both men got their first good look at Nick Wolfe. He was curled into a ball, lying in a classical fetus position. He shivered constantly, rocking back and forth, yet his body glistened with sweat. He was muttering something unintelligible. Methos wasn't sure if it was gibberish or a language he didn't know. The old Immortal was worried most about the fact that Wolfe had yet to react to his presence.

Wolfe lifted his head and Methos knew he must have felt Amanda's quickening. She slipped through the doorway; passing under Kurt with ease. "Nick," she gasped rushing to the bed. "Nick," she sat on the bed and clutched him to her, afraid that if she let him go he would vanish. "God, Nick. I'm so sorry."

Nick blinked, almost owlishly as he looked at her. "Amanda?" He questioned.

"I'm here Nick, I'm here," she reassured him comfortingly. She could feel the tension leave him.

In a voice void of any emotion he inquired, "Are you going to kill me now?"

Amanda froze with a look of horror washing over her face. The worst memory she has of the last decade was pulling the trigger in that warehouse and ending Nick's life three years ago. "Of course not," she answered sternly. It sounded forced even to her ears. "I'd never hurt you."

"You will… you did," he mumbled squeezing his eyes closed and pressing his palms into his temples. "Nothing makes sense in here?"

Methos stepped forward and roughly grabbed Nick under the arm and he said, "We need to go," as he pulled the larger man to his feet.

"Death," Nick whispered barely loud enough for Methos to hear.

He looked into Wolfe's eyes for the first time. Despite the fact Nick was staring right at him; his dark eyes never stopped moving. As if he was watching something nobody else could see. Gently, so as not to disturb Nick, Methos raised his arm, moving his hand in front of Nick's face.

Wolfe didn't react at all.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The group of young students; Marie and Bobby included, stood chastened and contrite. Nobody could see his normally gentle brown eyes, never had because of the special ruby quartz glasses he's been forced to wear since early adolescence, but the red glare from Scott Summers combat visor conveyed his disappointment quite clearly.

He sympathized with their situation. Stuck here; incommunicado with everyone, some type of static field was blanketing the greater New York area, while Logan and Kurt had been out of touch for some time now. In their position he probably would have done the same thing.

"Not a sound," he warned the group. "What you were about to attempt would more then likely have resulted in each one of yours death. A cross country flight at better then mach four isn't something either of you…" His glare settled directly on Bobby and Marie. "…are ready for." His gaze shifted back to the rest of the group as he added, "and trying to maintain control of a group of rambunctious, over eager, teenagers… You had no idea what you were getting yourselves into."

"You're not suggesting we abandon them?" Marie asked harshly.

"You of all people should know the answer to that," Scott reminded her. "We don't abandon are own. Never have, never will."

"What about Professor Xavier? Shouldn't we help out there first?" Rahne asked.

"If the Professor believed he needed help he would've contacted us telepathically. Logan's situation in California on the other hand could possibly spell the end of all life on the planet. Harsh as this might sound, whatever happens here in New York won't matter one wit if what happens in California destroys the world," he said taking a moment to explain. Scott knew if they got involved in any of the action he wasn't going to have to explain things to them, they were going to have to follow his orders without hesitation.

Scott looked over their young faces, watching the eagerness and exuberance he saw there. He couldn't remember a time when he had been as innocent. A part of him wished he could; a part of him wished he could leave them behind, let them enjoy their childhood. He couldn't afford to; California held the fate of the world and he would be damned if he didn't do everything in his power to prevent the Earth from being destroyed.

"Sam, Kitty, and Jubilee. You guys are with Bobby. Rahne, John, and Daniel; you three are with Marie. You'll do everything they say when they say it, because it'll becoming straight from me. Now strap yourselves in and keep the chatter to a minimum."

They all felt the engines thrum as Scott opened them up. The modified SR-71 Black Bird lifted off from the ground. Scott handled the plane with a smooth, easy skill.

Roberto DaCosta leaned forward; almost feeling intimidated by Scott Summers, and said, "You forgot about me sir," plaintively.

Scott smiled evilly as he said, "I didn't forget about Roberto. You're with me."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Gregor watched the battle that raged around him with a sense of growing concern. In all his life he never thought he would call forty to one odds a battle, those numbers didn't make a battle, they made a slaughter.

A slaughter was exactly what he was seeing.

Only it was his hundred and twenty that were getting slaughtered. They looked a second off, seemed a pace behind these newcomers.

They did it with vastly different styles.

The short man was brutal; Gregor saw flashes of immense skill in the man, but he didn't appear at all concerned with avoiding their attacks. He seemed to relish the violence. He wielded the metallic blades protruding from the back of his hands with cold efficiency; dispatching every knight that came before him.

The taller man was like a classical dancer with the way he moved among his men. His skill was like impregnable armor, his sword was Death's sickle; were its shadow passed knights fell dead.

The dark raven haired girl was faster and quite possibly stronger then both men. Neither man hesitated on delivering the killing blow though, while she did. Each man she faced would eventually get back up. She didn't possess either mans' skill, but she made up for her lack with her superior physical powers.

He shouted orders to his men; time tested strategies, but nothing worked against them. Perhaps if the three of them were working as one cohesive unit then his men might have stood a chance at stopping them.

But they didn't. Each one fought independent of the other two. Three forces of nature all converging on this spot; tornado, flood, and avalanche that he was forced to fight with straws and pebbles. They would fight and they would prevail; they had no other choice. There was no other option.

The Key was to be destroyed and he was to be god's hand on Earth. Nothing was going to stand in the way of his destiny; this was simply another challenge placed in front of him by god so he could prove his worthiness.

"Hey Gregor," Buffy said cheerfully from behind him.

He turned around at the sound of her voice. It was too close for her to still be inside the witch's shield. His face paled upon seeing her. There was something different about her; something vicious.

"Wanna guess what happens today?"

Gregor reached for his sword; grabbed the hilt and drew the blade in one smooth motion.

Buffy took three, contemptuously casual strides forward. Her tiny hand closed over his fist with a bone crushing grip. Her light hazel eyes froze his blood; they were merciless. She smiled at him, but it touched nothing but her lips. Bone snapped when she negligently twisted his arm.

"I kill you," she finally said a heartbeat before slamming the double edge sword into his gut and straight through his body and so it almost jumped clean through his back. Gregor slumped over, clutching her forearm and shoulder. "Don't look so surprised. I told you this was going to happen."

Buffy felt her stomach twist; turn sour in her throat as she watched Gregor. She forced the feelings back down. The sight of that little, nameless girl lying face down in a pool of her own blood made it easy to push down her qualms about the action she had committed. No matter how distasteful this was for her personally; Gregor had brought it upon himself.

She only had a brief moment to herself before the knights closest to her seemed to realize something was wrong. They shouted something at her; about her. She didn't know which and didn't really care. All of these men out here wanted to kill her sister; any one of them could succeed if she allowed them to live.

At least the hostages were safe within Willow's shield. Tara and Xander had gotten them inside in relatively short order while she had stood guard and Willow kept the shield open. Dawn had wanted to help, but Buffy had made sure her sister didn't come close to seeing any of this. Spike had been more then capable of keeping her in the closet, even if it was just by propping his body in front of the door.

Two knights came at her at once. She had a little skill with a sword, but like most of her skill it was gained on the fly because of her being a slayer. Violence came naturally for her, and she showed these knights just how natural it was.

Less then five minutes had passed since Duncan, Faith, and her father had arrived, but in that time they had thinned the herd of knights down quite a bit. How many didn't matter, now that they were four it was a simply matter of time.

A crossbow bolt whizzed several inches over her head. She whirled around, the great sword held in one hand as if it were nothing more then toy. Six yards in front of her Gregor stood with the bolt sticking out of his forehead, slightly off center. The man held a dagger in his right hand. His body seemed to lose everything at once; all of his limbs going limp as he dropped to his knees then fell flat on his face.

Buffy turned back around and looked to where somebody could have fired the bolt from. The only thing even close was the RV they had arrived in. A smile slipped across her lips knowing that Giles was still all right. Better then all right. He was still in the fight.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

She didn't know how long the fight lasted for. It could have been minutes, it might have been hours. All that Faith knew was that she was tired, physically exhausted, and it had nothing to do with the fight. The young slayer could see the same wariness in both Buffy and Duncan; like something heavy weighed upon them.

The only person that didn't look the least bit satiated was Logan; his body was covered in blood, as if he used the liquid to bath in. His clothes, what was left of them, were tatters; only the cuff remained of the right sleeve, while his right pant's leg ended just above the knee. His nose twitched as he scented the air. He took a couple of steps, adamantium claws springing from between his knuckles. Faith saw his destination, a knight whose chest continued to rise and fall.

Buffy turned to the hotel and shouted, "Willow!"

"No," Faith hissed.

Logan turned nearly black eyes on her. She would say they were like a shark's lifeless eyes, but his blazed with hatred. "Haven't you had your fill tonight?" She challenged in a tired voice.

"Ain't you they're after dumpling," Logan said stiffly.

Faith closed the distance with Logan as she asked, "What are you going to do, kill everyone you think might hurt them?"

"Works for me," Logan answered tersely.

Duncan flipped his sword up partially concealing it behind his right arm. "Taking a man's life in battle is one thing, Logan. What you're planning is cold blooded murder."

Logan snorted at Duncan's comment. "You make it sound like a bad thing," he said. Only it did sound like a bad thing. Something part of him rebelled against in the core of his being. He didn't know why it should. He could remember killing people all over the world, mostly on some governments orders, sometimes just because it was the right thing to do.

The tiny redhead opened the door; a large, jubilant grin on her face. It slipped as she looked at the bodies littering the ground. She made it about halfway to Buffy before she put her hand up to stop. Before she could say anything though Buffy spoke saying, "Gather everything you can, have Xander raid the snack machines, break into them if you have to. We'll pick you up on the other side… And Will, don't let Dawn see any of this."

"Anything else?" Willow asked as she allowed the shield to dissipate.

Logan glanced at the road Duncan, Faith, and he had been driving on no more then an hour ago. Both Faith and Buffy followed suit as they felt something approaching them at an impossible rate of speed. Logan growled low in his chest, as his other set of claws sprang from his left hand.

Buffy twisted back towards Willow and shouted, "Put the shield ba…"

Glory stood amongst them casting an appreciative gaze over the carnage. "I'm almost impressed."

Willow began reciting the words from memory, "Enemies, fly an…"

"Oh shut up," Glory said impatiently as she lifted a body from the ground and hurled it at Willow. It struck true, crashing into the witch. They went down in a heap, Willow cracking her head on the gravel strewn parking lot. Glory glance at the scanner a smile blossoming on her face. "There it is," she murmured and vanished in a blur as she ran into the room. The quartet rushed after her.

Glory looked around the small room. She grinned viciously at Tara and said, "You, I owe some serious humiliation to."

"Leave her alone!" Anya shouted throwing herself at Glory.

"Like that's gonna work," Glory murmured as she stepped aside so quickly it looked as if Anya jumped at empty air. She grabbed Anya by the back of her shirt and hurled her across the room. The ex-vengeance demon crashed into the wall with enough force to crack the drywall and 2x4's behind them.

Anya bounced off the wall and fell limply to the floor below as Xander; a broken chair leg at Glory's head. She caught the weapon with ease then slapped it into Xander's forehead. The young man fell to floor in a heap.

"I should probably just kill you all," she confided to Tara thoughtfully. Stepping closer, her eyes filled with a devilish light. "But I think I'm going to let you live, let you watch the end knowing there was nothing you could have done to stop me. Even if you do try, you'll just fail."

"Get out of here you skanky ass bitch," Spike growled as he launched a punch at her head.

"Please," Glory practically snorted as she twisted, avoiding his punch. Somehow her fingers were twisted into his hair. "Why don't you go get a life?" She spun and hurled him through the wall and out of the building.

Glory turned back towards Tara. "What, aren't you going to take your shot at me half breed?"

Tara stood there, she felt like a mouse who was desperately trying to avoid a snake that had found its way into her hole. If she moved the snake would see her and if the snake saw her she would die.

"Wow," Glory started sounding exceedingly proud with herself. "You're really afraid of me. Finally somebody around here shows me the proper respect." She walked past Tara and over to the small closet worked into the wall. She put her hand through the press board and yanked the door out of its casing.

She gazed down at Dawn like a greedy child would look at the world's largest bowl of ice cream covered in chocolate syrup, whip cream, cherries, bananas, strawberries, m & ms, sprinkles, fudge; anything and everything that could possibly be imagined, and they have every intention of keeping it all for themselves. To devour and savor for all eternity if that's how long it takes to eat it all with no help from anyone.

"Look at what we have here," Glory whispered possessively. She tossed the scanner across the room. Reaching down, she grabbed Dawn by the arm and jerked her out of the closet. "I've been tearing apart Sunnydale, looking all over for you and all this time you've been right under my nose. Those tricky, tricky monks. I'd congratulate them on doing such a good job of hiding you," she shrugged and added as an after thought, "if they weren't all dead that is."

Glory slung Dawn over her shoulder and turned just as Buffy entered the door. "Oh goody, I get to kick your ass again before I go."

"Let her go," Buffy ordered.

"Yeah, like that's going to happen," Glory answered sarcastically.

Buffy hurled herself across the room, very little thought going in to an actual battle plan. Glory evaded her first punch as well as her second. Just that quickly Faith was at Buffy side. Glory grabbed Buffy's wrist and threw her into Faith knocking the pair through the wall and into the room next door.

Logan charged her, claws out. Glory punched him square in the face launching him straight back the way he had come like he had been shot out of a cannon. The small mutant crashed into Duncan, his adamantium skull cracking open Duncan's head. The pair went down and stayed down.

"Well, this has almost been fun," Glory announced taking in the room. With a satisfied smiled she walked out the door.

An oppressive weight filled the air as the night sky was lit up as bright as day as Doom's aircraft dropped down almost on top of her. It hovered less then a foot off the ground; a gangplank extended as the hatch was opened. Carol stood at the open doorway with a stern scowl on her face. "Do you have it?" She shouted out.

Glory held Dawn out towards her and said, "What do you think this is?"

A brief look of incomprehension passed through Carol's eyes. It only took a moment, but when it did the woman blanked her features. "Get in," she finally ordered.

Glory did as Carol requested bringing Dawn onboard with her. Now that she had her key she wasn't going to let anything take it away from her again.

Carol turned back towards the cockpit as Glory went pass her. She glanced again at Dawn, but ignored her gut instincts. What ever Glory was planning, Carol didn't think she was going to allow Glory to go through with her little ritual. "Destroy everything with an engine down there," she told the pilot.

In a matter of moments the parking lot blazed as car after car was lanced with a high powered laser. The explosion thundered over the relatively peace of the desert. Chunks of metal are hurled skyward. In moments there isn't any vehicle left in one piece, let alone one that would run.

The aircraft rotated smoothly and then rocketed back towards Sunnydale.


	17. Chap 10: Santa Fe Part 1

**Chapter Ten: Santa Fe – Part One**

A heavy layer of black smoke hung low in the air. The heat from the roaring fire made the parking lot feel like the inside of a roasting oven. Faith ignored the heat with the same stubborn determination that she ignored Buffy and her crew.

Like Duncan on the other side of the motel she was trying to find any car that might still be serviceable, scavengable. As far as Faith was concerned it was a pointless task, like trying to find ice in the middle of the Sahara. She knew the assignment for what it was, just another way of keeping her out of the way while they talked things over.

Seeing the fear in Willow's eyes when the red head woke up and realized it was Faith that was pulling her out of harm's way sent a thrill through her. A thrill that repulsed her, twisted her stomach, made her feel as if she had step back in time two years.

She didn't care about Willow, whether she lived or died, if she put on a hundred pounds or dyed her hair purple with yellow polka dots.

Faith thought she had been beyond hating these people.

She hadn't felt that kind of blissful animosity towards anyone in a long time, but she hadn't seen somebody she despised so much in years. In prison she had been able to let go of all the rage she felt toward Buffy and her motley crew.

Meeting them face to face however was bringing back a lot of repressed emotions. Stuff she was either going to have to deal with or have it eat her up inside just like it did before, and she would be damned if she let that happen. She wasn't the same insecure little girl that hadn't been welcomed into their little club. She wouldn't let be like the last time she fell into their town.

Unlike two years ago, she no longer wanted to be part of their gang. Hell, she didn't want any part of this fiasco. If it wasn't for the fact that Dawn was in trouble she would have told them all to kiss her ass and skipped out on them already.

The heat, that had been sweltering a second ago, slowly dissipated until it was little then a hot night. The flames were as high as ever.

Faith cricked her head to look over her shoulder. A blonde haired woman was heading across the parking lot. Her right hand was in a thick cast. She was wearing a dark, floral printed ankle length skirt and a solid purple blouse and a soft red sash tied around her waist.

She wasn't a thin girl, but neither was she heavy. Faith would have simple called her buxom, maybe voluptuous. The blonde looked familiar, but Faith couldn't recall when they might have met before.

Faith knew she didn't have to be a brain surgeon to know she was the person responsible for the temperature drop. Either she was a mutant who controlled the temperature, or she was a witch and more then likely a member of Buffy's little Scooby Group.

One she didn't know.

Faith disliked her instantly. Like Riley before her, the blonde had managed to accomplish what she herself hadn't. She had penetrated that impregnable fortress Willow, Xander, Oz, Cordelia, Angel, Giles, and Buffy incased their insufferable little friendship inside of.

The only ones that had ever been nice to her, treated her like she was a decent person, not something that was better scraped of the bottom of their shoe, were Joyce and Dawn. Now Mrs. S. was dead and little D. was in the hands of some deranged goddess called Glory. A skanky ass bitch if Faith had ever seen one before, but a skanky ass bitch that had kicked their collective ass. An ass that consisted of two Slayers, an immortal, a mutant, a chipped vampire, a pair of witches, Xander, and his current hole.

Buffy had made a few half hearted attempts, but that was all they had ever been. Half hearted attempts by somebody that didn't want to make the effort.

A minute frown crossed Tara's lips as she approached Faith. The brunette's aura was jumping around like a frog on a hot tin roof. It was like she didn't know if she was suppose to be good or evil, to forgive people or hold onto her anger and hatred.

Tara wasn't sure if she should approach Faith or not. The last time she talked to Faith, the only time she had talked to the brunette she had been inside Buffy's body and she hadn't been all that friendly. Her aura had been just as schizophrenic that night.

Making up her mind Tara crossed the intervening space quickly. She wasn't sure what she going to say to the young girl, but she did want to talk to the real Faith.

Faith watched the blonde cross the parking lot with a small amount of pleasure. She could tell the blonde was spooked something fierce about something. More then likely her.

Tara stopped in front of Faith, studiously ignoring the bodies of the Knights littering the ground. She was getting very good at ignoring things she didn't want to see. "Thank you," she said quickly before Faith could make one of her usual off colored comments.

"For what?" Faith asked surprised by the blondes greeting.

Tara was almost as surprised by Faith's question. Most people simply said you're welcome and that was the end of it. This was Faith. "If you and Duncan and Logan hadn't come when you did, more people would have died."

Faith ran her eyes over the dead bodies and then said, "Don't see how that's possible."

"It is," Tara answered. She was still trying to figure out how to ask Spike about what Glory said to her. Calling her a half breed. It was clear as day in her memory, her father, brother, and cousin in the magic shop and Spike had stepped up and punched her square in the face and then howled in pain as he stumbled back clutching his head.

Did he lie? Was he faking it? And if so why? He didn't owe her anything, didn't owe any of the Scoobies anything. So why would he do it?

Faith's eyes fall on the body of the little girl a score of yards away. At first she can feel a cold rage surging in her. A second later she crushed it back down. She didn't know her, didn't owe her anything. Still she tore her eyes away from the body. "Time to head back," she said coldly. "Ain't nothing out here we can use anyway."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The small, cluttered room felt cramped to its occupants, even those that had spent the last several days stuck in a RV making the slow march out of California and into Nevada. There was one less person occupying the room but it felt like an abnormally large gorilla had taken their place. A gorilla that was armed to the teeth with automatic weapons.

This gorilla though didn't carry any weapon; he didn't even stand five and half feet tall. The ruins of his jacket and shirt had been discarded long ago revealing sculpted arms, a chiseled chest and rippling abs. Simply put, Logan didn't carry a weapon because he was a weapon. One of the most unkillable men on the planet. His mere presence could bring silence and order to a group of bickering, battle hardened soldiers.

Amongst this group of children, even with all their life and death experiences they accumulated during high school, none of them were capable of looking Logan in the eye. Not one of them wanted to meet that black, glossy eye stare.

A fury waiting to be unleashed.

Xander who had at least six inches on Logan and outweighed him by a good hundred pounds or more, didn't want to face the ire of the older man. He suspected the Logan could snap him two like a twig; a dry, brittle twig.

Willow looked up quickly, then back down at the rough hewn floor and winced at the pain throbbing deep in her brain. An ice pack was pressed firmly to the top of her skull. She felt like she had joined Spike on a three day drinking binge.

Despite her vast power she felt like a ten year old child that had just been caught after eating the entire bowl of brownie mix, with the thick chocolate brownie evidence smeared all over her face. She had never done anything like that, but once she had been over Xander's house when he had and this felt remarkably similar.

Like Xander's parents, Logan's anger wasn't focused on her. Still her desire to become microscopic was as strong now as it had been then.

Not for the first time she wished Tara was at her side, but her lover had been right when she pointed out that somebody had to make Faith feel like she was welcomed among them and since she was one of a few people that didn't have any personal history with the brunette it only made sense that she be their ambassador and make the initial overture of goodwill. Later, after everything was finally settled either Giles or Buffy would be able to extend the olive branch.

Every now and then Willow felt Logan's eyes on her, as if there was something he wanted to say but was waiting. For what she didn't know. Buffy's biological father didn't strike her as the sort of person who waited very well.

In that regard he was a lot like Buffy.

"It was my decision to leave," Buffy said in a level voice as she matched Logan's hard eye glare. "My responsibility. Everybody else was doing what I told them." There was an emotionless quality to her voice that none of her friends had ever heard before.

Giles had, the night she had faced the Master. Resigned to her fate. Defeated before the first encounter.

Logan snorted at her, a very derisive sound coming from him. "Do I look stupid?" His black eyes glared a challenge at everyone to give an affirmative answer.

Xander looked up and opened his mouth, but for once in his life common sense won out and he closed it. An off hand comment right now and he knew; without a doubt that he would lose vital organs. Not to mention his kneecaps.

"The moment you suggested Faith, we all knew you had something in the wind. Thought Amanda and the Elf would be able to keep you from doing anything stupid." Another snort said what he thought of that now. His voice remained level, but everyone could hear the strain in it.

"But you went?" Willow's small voice burst into the lapse and she instantly winced at the sudden loudness in her head.

Giles cleared his throat as he pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. "When the situation appears bleakest people often do what they normally wouldn't."

"That, and the fact another slayer on hand wouldn't hurt none," Logan added.

Xander tried to swallow a half chortle as he said, "You obviously don't know Faith."

Logan shifted his gaze to Xander pinning him to where he stood. "Bout as well as I know you, and I know who I'd rather have watching my back in a tight spot."

"Willow, Xander, and Giles have been with me since the beginning," Buffy responded in a hard tone. "There's no one I trust more."

Logan didn't say anything. His scowl didn't soften one millimeter either.

"Assessing blame at this juncture won't accomplish much of anything," Giles said hoping to deflect Logan's anger, if only momentarily. He wasn't sure why, considering the fact he didn't particularly like the stout construction worker. "There'll be ample time to divvy the blame up once the situation has been properly sorted out."

"Unless Glory completes the ritual, in which case the universe bleeds together with the Earth as its focal point." All eyes turned to Anya as she made her little proclamation. "What? Its true and we all know it."

"Wasn't planning on passing judgment on anyone…"

Xander breathed out a heavy sigh of relief and whispered, "Oh thank god," in a rather heartfelt tone.

"…Since there's more'n enough to go around. We've got to get our act together, find Glory and put her down for good."

Buffy glanced at Willow. The tiny redhead still had the icepack pressed firmly to her scalp. "What about it Wills? You up to doing a locator spell?"

"I can't even spell my name right now," Willow whispered and winced at the jolt of pain bouncing around her skull. She could feel Buffy's desperate, pleading gaze as it settled on her even though her jade green eyes never left the floor. "Let me rest, give me an hour or so… Maybe I'll be able to do something then," she finished with a heavy, plaintive voice.

"Or," Spike said quite loudly from where he was longing against the far wall. "We can use the fancy little gadget Glory tossed aside once she had her hands on the Niblet." In his hands he held the tracking unit Glory had negligently thrown away. "Or not? Your plan's good to. Give Glory that much more time to do whatever it is she's got to do. I'm sure there're advantages I just haven't seen yet."

Giles took the device from Spike. He held it up to study the display. The screen showed a number of blips, the largest of which was moving away from them at a rapid clip. Another of some distinction, a pittance though when compared to the other, was less then a dozen yards away.

The watcher couldn't begin to make heads or tails of the machine. That the large green blip was Dawn was obvious. It was all the other green dots that had him perplexed. He had no clue as to what they meant. Dawn had been made from a piece of Buffy, he supposed it was possible that the second large dot was Buffy, but that would mean Glory and Dawn were on a heading that put the pair on a quick march into Canada, maybe somewhere beyond Canada?

He didn't say anything though. There was the distinct chance that he was reading the machine wrong. There was no corresponding dot, of any significance that would represent Faith who was no more then a hundred yards beyond the room's back door sifting through the shattered wreckage for any viable transportation. The smaller blips could easily be potential slayers, but Faith was an active slayer and should have adequate representation.

_If not Buffy, what else could it possible be_?

His gaze shifted to the room's eastern door. Beyond it was the Immortal, Duncan Macleod. His mind froze at the apparent implications. Dozens of question flooded his brain as he tried to sort everything out. Only once he had thought of a suitable explanation for one question several more took their place.

He kept the astonishment from his face, but he noticed Logan's black eyes had settled on him. Giles knew the mutant, this one anyway, couldn't read his mind, but there was something knowing in his gaze. As if he knew that Giles now knew something he shouldn't and was deciding if he could be trusted with that knowledge or if he was going to have to be silenced.

If his hypothesis was correct; if he was reading the machine right, then that was Duncan on the other side of the door and that would make the other, larger blip Dawn. It still left a dozen or so little pricks of green light scattered around; some little more then dots the size of a needle point. Others were as large as a pencil lead. None were anywhere near the size of Duncan, and Dawn made them all appear to be flickering candles beside the sun.

The implications weren't lost on Giles. Somehow this machine was able to detect the key, or what made a person an immortal, possibly both. It could also mean that both were actually one and the same. In some way the Key must be a sentient entity and had been spinning itself out in these immortals, for what end god only knew.

The thought was beggaring.

One thing that made sense now that he had a proper handle on how the machine worked; was that Glory appeared to be making a beeline back to Sunnydale. "It looks like they are returning to Sunnydale," he said after several long moments.

"And to think three days in a tin can with the lot of you once wasn't thrilling enough… We get to do the whole bloody thing again. Like the first time wasn't horrifying enough?" Spike gripped.

"All we have to do is find a way back to Sunnydale that doesn't involve large amounts of time around Spike," Xander said with a truck load of false enthusiasm. "And then figure out a way to deal with that pesky little Hellgod."

"Soon as you figure out how to do that, you let me know." Spike voice was laden with a heavy dose of derisive sarcasm.

Logan's hard gaze swiveled around Buffy and her friends. "Any of yous got a cell, now'd be a good time to pull it out," he requested of the group.

Spike snorted lazily as he said, "With this lot? You'd have better luck finding an electric razor in an Amish paradise."

"What about Faith?" Anya suggested trying to be helpful.

"She just got out of prison An," Xander began in a slow, measured tone of voice. "I don't think she's managed to get herself a wireless plan in half a day."

In a soft, almost too low for anyone with normal hearing to hear, voice, Willow said, "Maybe Duncan has one… He seems the sort?"

Buffy didn't say anything. She stared into space, her mind awhirl. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, only she didn't want to say them; didn't want to give voice to the dark, morbid thoughts ravaging her mind.

Thoughts about Dawn. Thoughts about Glory. Thoughts about their chances.

They were going to die; her, her friends, Dawn, Logan. All of them.

The world was going to be destroyed.

And there was nothing that she could do to stop it.

A low growl, that of a rabid wolf warning of imminent attack, pulled Buffy out of herself. She looked up, turning her head only slightly to stare directly into Logan's pitiless eyes. His pupils were large, dark with nearly no iris visible. Fathomless pits without mercy. His face was a thunderhead of fury, his nostrils flared wide as if he caught the scent of something foul.

Buffy swallowed reflexively. She knew exactly what his ultra sensitive nose had smelt.

Her.

Her complete and utter fear.

Without speaking she mouthed the question, "What's the point?" She didn't need to look at Spike to know he had perked up.

"The point," Logan began unconcerned with the fact that he was taking a private conversation and making it public, "is how you face it. Winning, losing… Surviving. None of that matters now. I could die, you could… Hell all of us might be dead before the sun rises in the morning and all that matters is how you face it. You can either lie down and take it, let it wash you away like flotsam in the surf.

"Or you can make your stand, fight with all the grit in your gut, holding nothing back, spill every drop of blood you have and maybe, just maybe you do what you thought was impossible. Win." The determination rolled off Logan. Buffy could feel it; it hit her like a sharp slap or a bucket of freezing water thrown in her face.

She didn't understand.

The man she thought as her father for her entire life wanted nothing to do with her. He was still her father, at least she still thought of him as her father. She couldn't help it, for twenty years it had been reality. No matter how hard she tried or how much she wanted to, she found it impossible to simply turn her emotions off. They weren't a television with a handy on off button for her to press.

Logan had shown up out of nowhere. Biologically he was her father; she knew it in the core of her being, on a level so deep it was incomprehensible to her. There was no denying it. He had been in their lives little more then a week and nothing short of death was going to stop him from rescuing Dawn.

With sudden clarity Buffy realized it wasn't just Dawn he felt that way about.

It was her as well.

He would die to keep both of them safe. _And may god grant anyone who brings us harm mercy, because Logan won't_. She knew the thought that bubbled through her head was pure truth. She didn't know how, but she knew it.

_How_? She wanted to know. _How can a person feel so strongly about another person in a week_? _Hank wouldn't risk a paper cut_.

Her realization had a profound effect, she couldn't explain it, but suddenly she felt galvanized. Simply knowing that there was one person who was never going to leave her side revitalized her.

Buffy doubted she would ever feel for Logan what a daughter should feel for her father, like how she loved Hank despite having to deal with his attitude, indifference, and bullshit for the last four years. She believed she could know Logan the rest of her natural life and never feel that emotional connection with him.

On the other hand the respect she had for Logan outstripped the love she felt for Hank; it grew by leaps and bounds with each second that ticked by. She wished that she could just transfer her feelings. That she could simply snap her fingers.

It was never that easy.

Of course with what everyone says, things that are really worth it never were easy.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Duncan had stopped looking for a car some time ago, pretending to look as it were. Nobody expected a drivable car to be found out of this wreckage, it was just one of those things that needed to be done, so it was.

He glanced back at the ruins of the motel, pivoting his feet ever so slightly, enough so he didn't have to strain his torso. The word ruin was probably too strong a word; after all it didn't look much different then it had when he first saw it a short time ago.

Shambles fit it much better.

Ruin or shambles it didn't really matter.

What did was the uneasy tingle along his spine. For his entire life he's always kept what he was a secret, a jealously guarded one at that. In his four hundred year long life it was a secret he has revealed to a select few.

Now, over the course of a few days, where events have spun out of his control, he has brought near a dozen people into his confidence. All of whom were complete strangers to him. He felt he could trust them, but feelings weren't proof.

Buffy, Faith, Spike, and Logan concerned him most. In the circles he traveled he was accounted a fine swordsman, one of the best. Life and death combat tended to hone one's skill, but skill alone wouldn't offset that groups natural advantages; their strength was beyond anything he had ever encountered before. With a casual grip Faith had crushed the bones in his hand, which was nothing compared to watching her twist steel into pretzel like shapes. What amounted to a tap from Spike had killed Amanda.

Seeing them in a fight had been an eye opening experience. No Immortal could match their sheer speed and overwhelming power. The only hope one would have was to ride out the initial assault and hope to take advantage of an opening. There were bound to be quite a few since their skill was abysmal.

_Buffy's and Faith's skill are abysmal_, he corrected.

Logan had skill in abundance and a healing ability that was on par with an Immortal's. His bones were laced with a metal, adamatium, which was stronger then steel. He also possessed claws made from the same alloy.

Somebody had seen a warrior and turned him into a killing machine.

The rest of them didn't matter too much. Loose ends at most. He could disappear for a century or more if necessary; live under an assumed name for awhile. It would be the first time he has ever done so, but he knew he could if he had to.

He began the short trek back to the motel with trepidation. He had the feeling this was going to end badly, one way or another. For one of the few times in his life he felt every single one of his four hundred and eight years.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Carol looked the young girl over with the critical eye of a hardened mercenary. She examined Dawn with the quick, practiced efficiency of a woman that didn't want to be doing what she was doing, but was determined to do it to the best of her ability.

Her rough treatment and intense scrutiny frightened Dawn; made her feel like a piece of meat under inspection. The way the woman looked at her, with a sort of bland expression sent a slow freezing shiver down the young girl's spine.

It was nothing to the numbing terror Glory caused the teenager, with the light of ardent insanity burning in her eye. Dawn knew what her fate was where Glory was concerned.

The other blonde however looked at her as if she was trying to figure out what Dawn was. And she would stop at nothing until she knew everything about the young girl in front of her.

Carol pushed Dawn to the side, not roughly but not like she was of any importance either, and turned her gaze on Glory, her face a mask of patience personified. "Where is it Glory?" She demanded in a frosty voice. She was getting tired of having to play nice and her irritation was crystalline in her voice. "Where is the Key?"

Glory burst out laughing, hearty gales that lasted for some time. "Who would've thought monks could be so deceiving?" She said between fits. "How else could they be sure the slayer would protect it with her life but to make it out of a piece of her."

Carol turned her gaze back to Dawn, a mixture of curiosity and understanding in her eyes now. She had expected the Key to be some inanimate object; sealed away in a box or some other type of container. As she thought about it for a moment that was exactly what they had.

A human container.

"…Not the slayer's little sister," Glory was going on. Cruel humor was coloring her voice. "More like a daughter, or a defective clone…"

For a brief moment Dawn's fear burnt away, like blood on a red hot skillet. "Filthy bitch," she snarled and threw herself forward with speed born from desperation. She hurled herself at Glory. As she saw it this might be her only opportunity to save the world. Enrage Glory so much so that the Hellgod forgot herself and killed her in a fit of rage.

A strong hand wrapped itself around Dawn's throat and the young girl felt herself lifted into the air and then slammed into the aircraft's bulkhead. Her head bounced unceremoniously off the floor with a solid crack. A weak, "Ow," rushed out of her lips.

When she inhaled she found it difficult and she was only able to gasp and choke down a fraction of the oxygen she needed. The hand around her throat showed no signs of loosening anytime soon.

Her eyes snapped open as her hands flew to the wrist and forearm of the arm pinning her to the floor. She pushed and struggled with all her might, throwing everything she had against the woman that was kneeling over her.

To no avail.

The steely blue eyes that stared down at her didn't show an ounce of effort on her part.

Dawn had the distinct feeling that the woman could give Buffy a run for her money. Quietly she quit her struggle and the woman took her acquiesce for what it was. Surrender.

Carol loosened her grip slightly, enough so the girl could breathe more easily, and didn't concern herself with the small hands still wrapped around her arm. She almost hadn't acted in time; the girl's speed had been something of a surprise to her.

"Glory is an alley of Lord Doom's. An attack upon her would be considered an attack upon him." Carol explained hoping that Glory was paying attention. If the psychopath believed Carol would jump to her aid, the advantage was to her. She had an inkling as to what the teenager was thinking, her own, slight precognitive ability had kicked in. She couldn't help but admire the girl's courage, especially after seeing Glory in action. Faced with that fate she'd seriously consider finding a high cliff to swan dive off of as well. "The scanner?" She requested holding her left hand out to Glory. Just because Glory said a thing didn't make it true and she wanted verification.

"I left it behind," Glory informed Carol while the other woman still had her attention firmly affixed on Dawn.

Carol stiffened at the words. She rose to her feet fluidly, turning on Glory. She growled, "You did what?"

Glory looked at Carol with smug confidence. She had the Key now; Doom and his lackey were more superfluous now then ever before. Only the fact that they were cruising several thousand feet above solid ground kept her from dispensing them. She was extremely tired of falling from thousands of feet, plus the Key wouldn't survive and a dead Key did her no good. "It was useless to me…" She shrugged. "I've got the Key."

"You're a fool," Carol snapped. If it wasn't for the fact that Doom wanted Glory gone she'd toss the supposed God out of the aircraft and make a beeline straight to Latveria.

"Careful Colonel," Glory warned.

"Did you destroy it?" Carol asked hopefully.

Bewilderment colored Glory's voice as she asked, "Why would I?"

"Because now they'll be able to track us back to Sunnydale." She twisted her head to look at Dawn with a touch of skepticism. "If you read the damn thing accurately. For all I know you simply snatched another one of those damn Immortals?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The interior of the Black Bird was nearly silent despite half a dozen different conversations taking place at once. Each conversation was held at a minimal volume. An air of tense anxiety had settled over the aircraft's passengers as they rushed toward Sunnydale and an unknown confrontation.

In the front cabin Scott Summers sat at the controls, and while he had a lot on his mind he handled the plane with impeccable smoothness. His meeting in Spain with Hank Summers, a man that might be a bona fide blood relative, had been very informative.

Hank Summers was the younger brother of Christopher Summers. There was a good fifteen years age difference between the two. Hank had idealized his big brother growing up. By the time he turned ten, Christopher was twenty-five and the United States Air Force's top test pilot. Every time he came home there were always more stories to be told. Seven years later he had courted and then, with the family's blessing, married an extremely intelligent, bright eyed woman named Katherine Anne who was about Twenty-three years old. Three years after they had their first child Scott, a year later Alex was born, and two years later the family disappeared near Colorado; somewhere in the Rocky Mountains.

A massive search and rescue operation had been mounted to find them, but after two weeks scouring the countryside, without the slightest trace of wreckage found, it had dwindled and was subsequently called off. Hank later discovered there were aspects of the search that the Government had covered up.

He had never been able to find out what. The Government had ways of making sure people didn't look where they weren't wanted, that people didn't ask questions or talk about what they didn't want you to talk about, of discouraging unwanted attention.

With the birth of his first daughter, Buffy, he had honored Katherine by giving her the middle name Anne.

Scott didn't bother to tell Hank he knew all about Buffy and Dawn. Didn't tell him that he probably knew more about his life then Hank himself remembered. Didn't tell Hank that as far as being a human being went Hank was lagging behind the rest of the race. Scott didn't know if he was ever going to see Hank again, but he felt it best to keep his options open. He had agreed to a blood test, but it was going to take time to arrange.

He wished he still had Jean to talk to. The last month had been hard going without her. The only reason he hadn't picked up his stakes was because he knew Jean would want him to keep on teaching; keep helping the children. Truth of the matter was, was that he couldn't think of anything he would want to do more.

This last week he missed her terribly. They had talked constantly about what would happen if he ever did find his family. In all those conversations it had been the two of them dealing with the situation. Jean standing by his side when he finally meant his potential family members; Aunts, uncles, cousins, brother… Maybe even one of his parents.

It had always been both of them.

Now it was him going through it alone. He felt cheated because Jean wasn't with him, because he had to endure this without her.

He still had a lot of dreams, but he knew having Jean at his side, marrying her, raising a family, and growing old together were the ones that were never going to happen.

The communicator's insistent chirping pulled him out of his malaise, but Marie had already responded to the incoming call in her own unique fashion, "Hi ya'll," then screeched, "Logan! We've been worrying ourselves sick worrying about you. Nobody knew where you were. Me and Bobby were gonna borrow the Black Bird, fly it on out there and bring everyone back home, but Scott came back so he decided to fly a few of us out to Sunnydale… There's some type of electric-magnetic storm affecting most of New York. Nobody's been able to call in or out and the Professor and most everyone else's stuck in the center of it… Scott? He's sitting right here, sort of giving me an impromptu flying lesson, not that he's let me fly yet," she pointed out with a meaningful glare. "It's Logan. He wants to talk to you," she added after a slight pause.

"Thank you," he said without pointing out that he knew who it was simply by listening to her. Not even Bobby could cause the young southern belle to become so animated. Logan though, simply mentioning his name got her face to light up. "Take the controls for a minute Rogue," he added as he instinctively adopted a more commanding tone.

His words startled the teenager, but she recovered quickly taking the stick. The powerful plane thrummed with life and power under her hands. Everything was magnified in an instant. Her heart raced as her fingers tightened on the stick. A bead of sweat had broken out along her brow and she suddenly felt drenched to her bones. It wasn't the first time she had handled the Blackbird, but it was the first time when she wasn't the focal point of someone's complete attention. She would love nothing more then to open the machine and see what it could do, but that wasn't what she was suppose to do; so she simply held the plane steady.

"Wolverine," Scott said stiffly; each man respected the other, but both would be damned forever before ever admitting anything of the sort. "The Professor informed me of the situation during my trans Atlantic flight, before the interference knocked out communications. You guys are out of Sunnydale and waiting for pick up."

"Ain't so simple," Logan's voice growled through the ear piece. "You got a fix on our location?"

"Computer started triangulating your position as soon as you called. We'll be there in five minutes, little sooner if I open the throttle up a bit more," Scott said. He could feel ten pairs of young eyes on him as he talked to Logan. Their combined curiosity pressed upon him. "What happened?"

"Bitch got her… Snatched Dawn right out from under my nose."

"Damn," Scott breathed. This hadn't been part of his plan. He had expected this to be nothing more then a milk run. A quick jaunt out to the west coast, pick up Logan and his crew, and race back to Westchester fast as you please.

Tossing these New Mutants into the thick of battle had never been his intention. Only now, there didn't appear to be much choice. Glory had Dawn and the fate of the world would rest in their hands.

"Just need you to set me down in striking distance, then scat back home."

_Just like the man_. "That isn't how this works Logan!"

"Ain't your fight Cyke!"

"Like hell it ain't!" Scott cut him off bringing every once of authority he could muster to bear down on Logan. "Like it or not mister you're part of this team, part of this family. It might not be blood, but it's a bond just as deep, just as unbreakable. For some of us; me, you, Rogue it's the only family we've ever known. So your fight is our fight, and come hell or high water we're going to save our cousin."

Silence came through the ear piece and for a moment Scott thought Logan had hung up on him, only he could hear the distilled background noise, the scratching of the phone moving across bristle like stubble. Then just before the line did go dead, he heard the last words he ever thought he would hear come out of Logan's mouth. "Jean chose the right man."

Then silence did descend inside the plane. It was almost deafening. He turned and looked over the young faces gazing at him as if he were the mutant equivalent of Jesus Christ. They were so young, so youthful, so full of confidence and exuberance, the immortality of youth filling their minds, burning in their blood.

He tried to remember a time when he had been so young; so innocent and naive. He couldn't. He had grown up fast and he had grown up young. Hard and cynical by the time he reached even Rahne's tender age.

Looking at them he couldn't help but wonder which one wasn't going to be coming home this time. _Would there be more then one bright face missing from this group before it was all said and done_? He was realistic enough to know it was possible.

It was more then possible; highly likely.

His last mission had been comprised, mostly of experienced highly skilled and trained people and he had still lost Jean. This group was made up of some the newest, some of the rawest, some of the greenest students at the school…

With the world hanging in the balance.

"Strap yourselves in," Scott ordered harshly. He gave them precious little time to comply before he banked the Black Bird sharply. The time for coddling them was at an end.

If it had ever existed.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

A distinctive bamf of displace air and a thick cloud of gray smoke announced the arrival of Kurt Wagner, the blue skin mutant who suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. A heartbeat later he disappeared in an identical fashion.

The front door of 1630 Revello Drive burst open, the wood frame splintering around the deadbolt as Peter James Garis, Jean Luc Marcels, Stewart Lipton, and Brady Devlin stormed into the house in a controlled rush, high powered automatic weapons held at the ready as they scanned the room, fanned out into the rest of the house with the ruthlessness, the single minded determination of starving dingoes. They moved through the house, securing every room, from the basement to the attic and everything in between with a smooth, precision honed haste.

They were all hard eyed men, with chiseled features. Their mannerisms were sharp and hard edged. They had the look of men used to violent situations, of reacting to sudden changes without the slightest hesitation. Of making the hard choices without blinking an eye.

Before the all clear was given Amanda stumbled into the house, Nick Wolfe's right arm was draped over her shoulder. Methos helped support him through the doorway. Amanda made an immediate line for the stairs and the master bedroom beyond.

Nick had been coming in and out of consciousness the entire trip back to Buffy's house, rambling incoherently. Amanda was worried about the young immortal. More than worried about him. She had never seen anybody injured in such a way, never heard of any immortal suffering an injury like the one Glory had inflicted Nick.

Not after their first death.

Joe Dawson followed them in, leaning heavily on his cane. He ran a critical eye over the damaged property. _Our government hard at work_. "Lady is not gonna be pleased," he noted with dry cynicism. Joe gave Rossi a hard eye glare.

Rossi moved into the house. He dismissed Dawson's comment as casually as he ignored the old man's stare. He might not always agree with Col. Fury methods, but the old man was right. The only way to make a good omelet was to break a few yolks.

"Secure the house, set up a perimeter. Anything suspicious gets within 100 meters I want it tagged in bag before it makes twenty-five," Rossi ordered his the remainder of his team. He gave a short nod before taking the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. He was determined to find out exactly what was going on around here.

Joe snorted sourly as he hustled towards the stairs with all the speed his prosthetic legs would give him. Garis stood lazily in front of the stairs ostensibly blocking them. Joe looked at the men, his face lidded with a bone weary fatigue. He had been up far too long for a man of his advancing years; he was tired, he was grouchy, and he wasn't in any mood to put up with this. "You planning on putting roots down son? You gonna step aside peaceable like, or am I gonna have to plant this someplace," he nodded slightly at the cane he was leaning on, "you may, or may not enjoy?"

"You've got a lot of snap left old men," Garis said to Joe.

"Old Man?" Joe murmured with a hint of a smirk. "And I walk on plastic legs… And when I was an eighteen-year-old smartass, I was slogging my way through the muck and mud in the crude for my country in places they don't teach you tire neck kids like you about nowadays… For reasons I still don't understand. Now, I'm going up those stairs, only questions' going to be is… With this cane or without?"

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The Blackbird hummed in the cusp of silence as it raced back toward Sunnydale. Close to a dozen hushed conversations filled the plane, but none were loud enough to dominate the others.

Scott piloted the specially modified SR-71 aircraft with an intense stoicism. The scanner Glory had discarded at the motel had been hooked directly into the plane's sophisticated sensors.

The hardware was more complicated then anything Scott had ever seen before. It had even befuddled Buffy's resident computer geek, Willow. Kitty had been the only one among them to grasp the technology, and she admitted some of what she did was pure guesswork.

Whoever crafted the scanner was a genius without peer.

Spike was sitting in a front row chair. He thought they looked like someone's idea of modern art. The view through the front windshield was the definition of the word exquisite. He would kill for a cigarette, but he had been informed the Blackbird was a smoke free environment. Since there were people around that could turn him into a popsicle, or make his worst nightmares come to life, or blast him into a fine powdery substance he liked to call dust, he figured he would stay on their good side for as long as possible.

_Why hack 'em off over a fag_? He wondered blandly.

Sitting next to him was a big Indian. The man looked like he could uproot a small tree if he was so inclined, something about the size of a redwood. His name was Proudstar, Spike couldn't remember if it was John, James, Jack, Jake. Nor did he care overly much.

Buffy was a row back on the opposite side of the plane. In the seat next to her was a truly tiny red haired girl of Scottish descent, Rahne Sinclair. Buffy didn't think the girl was more then twelve or thirteen years old, maybe only eleven.

She wasn't sure if these X-Men were insane or just plain stupid. What kind of a team would allow kids like Rahne and Roberto and Kitty and the rest of them to fight their battles? It was the same reason she deplored the Council; turning children into soldiers.

Their eyes were on her. She could feel them; could almost hear the questions that must be bubbling along the surface of their inquisitive little minds. At least they were polite enough not to talk about her. They knew she was like them, but different, even from them. She was something else entirely and they weren't sure if she was trust worthy.

A young Chinese girl occupied the seat in front of her. Like her, Jubilation Lee was a relocated Los Angelenos. They might have more in common with each other, but aside from brief introductions not a lot of information had been exchanged between the two groups. Buffy wasn't all that interested in more then that.

Faith had no such compunction and was engaged in a very amiable conversation with the younger girl. Despite their dissimilar appearance the two girls had found a common ground. On the surface anyway. By the sound of their conversation Buffy didn't believe Jubilation was that much younger than Faith.

Rupert Giles sat directly opposite Buffy, next to the Blackbird's hull. He was engaged in a lively conversation with a beanpole that had somehow grown arms, legs, and a head that spoke with a heavy Kentucky drawl. The sound of his voice was very easy to listen to, it had a rhythm that made him seem slow witted, but Buffy suspected the opposite was true. His shock of short cropped hair reminded her of sunrise, when those first golden rays broke over the horizon and bathed the world in light.

She would kill to possess hair that color. Fortunately for the world Clairol managed to bottle it and now sold it retail for about nine dollars a hit.

At least Giles didn't seem to put upon by the youngsters jabber. All those years of having to put up with Xander were finally beginning to pay dividends for long-time watcher.

Xander occupied a seat directly behind her with Anya leaning close to his side. The pair was talking softly amongst themselves. Buffy found that to be a miracle of nearly biblical portions, almost equal to Noah fitting all those animals in his ark. Normally the pair talked loud enough to be heard three states away and showed practically no concern for what they said, until after it was said.

Anya still wouldn't care, no matter how sensitive the subject was. The ex-vengeance demon was refreshing that way. Plus Buffy always found it amusing to watch Xander squirm like a warm on the end of a hook after Anya unintentionally informed everybody of their most intimate secrets. The more intimate the secret the more Xander squirmed and the more amused Buffy became.

Sometimes she wondered if that made her a bad person or not. It was rare and generally faded rather quickly.

Duncan was sitting behind Giles. Sit though didn't really describe the way he lounged; long legs stretched out in front of him, nimble fingers laced behind his head affording it some support. He was a fair impression of resting peacefully. Buffy supposed if there was anyone on this plane that should be able to rest peacefully it would be the one that didn't have to worry about dying.

That however didn't strike her as Duncan. The man seemed the type to fret about everything outside of his control. He had been going to buy her mom's gallery simply to help Dawn in her out of a tight spot. He wasn't even going to take controlling interest of the business, simply act as something of a manager.

It they manage to make it through the next several hours relatively unscathed she was going to have to come up with some way to properly express her gratitude. Not that he was looking for anything from her. Still, right was right and nothing he could say would dissuade her.

_And if he tries I'll just have to beat the notion out of him_?

In the seat next to Duncan sat Danielle Moonstar, a young Native American, Cheyenne Buffy thought the young girl had said. She had the most luxuriant black hair Buffy had ever seen, thick and with the look of silk to it. Danielle kept tied back in simple braid that reached the small of her back.

She had her head bowed, and was rocking back and forth ever so slightly. She was mumbling something so softly that even with her superior hearing Buffy wasn't able to catch more than a single word or snatch of a phrase here and there.

The words were meaningless blabber to her, but Buffy knew she didn't need to understand what was being said to recognize a prayer when she heard one. Like most of these kids this would be Danielle's first live combat with nothing less than the fate of the world hanging in the balance.

_Nothing like putting a little pressure on them to see how they hold up_?

It had thrown Buffy for something of a loop when she realize she has spent the majority of her last five years throwing herself into these harrowing, life-and-death conflicts. A fifth of her life has passed since the first time she desperately scurried away from that first vampire as he savagely tore his way through the six feet of freshly churned earth that covered his coffin.

To be able to go back to the beginning, when everything had been so simple; when she had been nothing but naïve little girl. She wished she could go back to when the icy hand of fear held her and its throbbing, pulsing grip, when the knowledge a certain, an inevitable death robbed her of the ability to move, to even form the most basic of thoughts. When a biting, razor-sharp tongue, bitter for all she was never going to see, never going to experience, had jumped to the four and began a scathing litany of his shortcomings.

She had done this dance so many times now, that she felt numb inside. The unknown had been replaced by the familiar and there was nothing left to fear. Knowing that should have worried her more than anything, but it didn't.

Buffy envied these children their innocence and despise herself for being the one to snatch it from them. After Sunnydale, none of them were ever going to be the same again. She knew that with the same finality of driving a stake through a vampire's heart. The shock of a sharpened piece of wood as it punched through flesh and bone, muscle and sinew that faded as the undead monster turned to dust.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"What's wrong with him?" Amanda demanded of the older immortal once they gained a momentary respite from Rossi and the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents that had been hounding them. Neither one of them particularly trusted the government operatives. Both have had their share of dealings that have gone bad when working with agencies like S.H.I.E.L.D.

Methos shot her an unreadable look. When the pair were on cordial terms with each other they were hardly what anybody would call civil. "How am I suppose to know?" He inquired as he let Wolfe fall onto the bed. He looked down on the man with something like pity, only more self serving. As far as he was concerned somebody ought to take his head and be done with it. It would be a kindness compared to the rather short life he could expect to have if his current condition didn't change.

With an incredulous glare Amanda said, "Because you're the oldest man on the planet."

"And that means what, exactly?" Methos asked with a quirked eyebrow. He knew the only way Duncan or Amanda would allow that to happen was over their dead bodies. "That I'm supposed to have seen this before?"

Much as Amanda wanted to say yes, she couldn't bring herself to do it.

With a sudden surge of strength Nick grabbed Methos by the lapel of his jacket and pulled the older man down to him. "The pact, you need to establish the pact… War? All dead with… Pri…" His grip slackened as he fell back to the bed. "…Me."

Both Immortals shared a confused look. It was similar to other outburst he has had since they rescued him earlier tonight. This one was a little more coherent than some, but not much. Not enough to be understood.

Like everything else coming out of his mouth all night long it had been insanity.

Gibberish.

Methos turned his head a fraction of a moment before the partially opened door swung all the way in. Rossi stepped into the room with a very determined look on his face. Unlike the two Immortals, Rossi forced the door all the way shut.

He stared at the pair with the type of intense scrutiny that would cause their heads to explode. Amanda thought the Major was attempting to uncover their secrets with that impertinent stare if his. Or if he looked at them hard enough, long enough they would break down and tell him everything they knew.

After what felt like a piece of eternity had come to a close, Rossi began with, "I've got a problem, I'm hoping you can help me solve?" The sarcasm in his voice was heavy enough a deaf person could have for it.

Amanda frowned slightly with concern. She nibbled on her lower lip as if worried. Then she fluttered her eyelashes and said, "Why officer, are you going to arrest me?" She held her arms out to Rossi. "Slap those cuffs on me and take me take me down to your interrogation room? Beat me until I beg to tell you everything you want to hear?"

Rossi felt his temperature rise. The file on Amanda said she was a temptress, that she could wrap men around her figures with little more than a sultry gaze. The heat he felt under his caller told him that her file didn't even scratch the surface. There were a lot of questions he would love to ask her in a private, soundproof room, that didn't come equipped with surveillance equipment, but the information gathered during those sessions would be of a very private nature. "As titillating as I find that scenario, I'm gonna have to take a rain check."

Methos chuckled softly, right corner of his lips twisting up slightly before you asked, "If that's the case, what'd you want us for?"

Rossi thought for a moment as he chewed on his inner cheek; what to tell, what not to tell. Pierson had some type of tap inside S.H.I.E.L.D. making it impossible to know what he knew and what he didn't. "I've been given a lot of information recently, most of which I'm beginning to believe was less than truthful." He focused his full attention on Pierson. "Take you. My files tell me you're an international terrorist that goes by the moniker Methos, that there's some sort of deep animosity between you and Macleod."

"I've only known Mac for handful of years," Methos answered honestly, "hardly enough time to decide if you like somebody or not. I will tell you this much about Mac though… There isn't anyone I'd trust to watch my back then Duncan Macleod."

"That doesn't tell me much of anything," Rossi countered.

"What do you want to know?" Amanda asked hoping to keep the conversation civil.

Rossi shifted his attention to Amanda and asked, "What do I want to know? What I want is for somebody to tell me the truth."

In a soft whisper Methos said, "You couldn't handle the truth." He wasn't about to let any more humans know about immortals; especially not one attached to a government intelligence agency.

"There…"

A soft pop, along with a small, dense, but quickly dissipating cloud of sulfurous smelling smoke, heralded the arrival of Kurt Wagner. "I do not mean to interrupt," Kurt said as he dropped softly to the floor, "but there is a rather important phone call downstairs."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Kurt just went up…" displaced air popped with Kurt Wagner's arrival. A small cloud of sulfurous smoke began to dissipate. Joe's lips turned downward in a slight frown as he said, "Yeah. He just popped back in." Joe knew there was no way the young woman on the other end of the phone should have been able to hear that soft pop, it seemed as if that was exactly what she did.

"It's for you," he said handing the phone to the mutant. He still wasn't used to the blue skin young man standing in front of him.

"Danke," Kurt said taking the handset from Joe. "Hallo. It is good to hear your voice as well… We can discuss that later, after everything else is sorted out… More in myself than you, Wolverine warned me you might try something… We were just there." His face fell at Buffy's news. More then one person heard him whisper, "God protect us and forgive us our trespass."

Methos, Rossi, and Amanda all reach the top and stairs at about the same time. Kurt looked up to see the trio descend the stairs in an orderly fashion. After the reception he received upstairs he was surprised any of them had come out of the room, let alone all three. He could only begin to speculate on what they had been discussing.

"Ja, will start getting everything together on this end. I'm sure Rossi won't mind loaning us a few of his agents to baby sit Glory… Rossi, he's a, what Wolverine would call a government spook… he's been trailing a friend of Duncan's. Adam Pierson… We helped him retrieve a member of his unit from Glory's minions."

Michael Rossi didn't fail to notice that Nightcrawler used the codename Wolverine. The only name he had for the blue skinned mutant was Nightcrawler, everyone was very careful about calling him nothing but Nightcrawler. Rossi was positive this was the mutant responsible for the attempt on the President's life seven weeks ago. An incident the President himself ordered closed only four days later.

"Ja, we'll see you shortly," Kurt said and took the phone away from his ear. It took him a moment to locate the off button. He still wasn't used to reading English, having only just learnt how to read the language several weeks ago by means of a telepathic crash course.

Amanda pushed her way between Methos and Rossi with a few well-placed elbows. She had the feeling something terrible had happened. She was overreacting because of Nick and she knew it. But she also knew it would be just like Logan or Duncan to go get themselves killed. "What's going on?" She demanded.

"Yeah," Rossi began, his voice just hinting at the irritation burning inside him. "Why don't you fill us all in on why I won't mind loaning you when you a few of my men?"

Kurt kept his eyes locked with Amanda as he said, "Glory has the Key," deliberately emphasizing the word Key so Amanda wouldn't use Dawn's name. More than likely Rossi would know everything in the end anyway, but this wasn't his secret to tell.

"D…" Amanda began sharply before she caught herself. Since discovering Nick earlier tonight her composure had been off, she was finding herself a beat behind. "Glory can't be allowed to keep it." Her voice was full of determination. She would march up to Glory and take Dawn back. Maybe sneak in and steal Dawn back like a thief in the night while somebody else marched up to Glory. That would be more her style.

Rossi cleared his throat dry all eyes to him. Tersely he asked, "What the hell is the key?"

Kirk shrugged as he said, "To be quite honest with you, I'm not completely sure myself. I've been told it is a… That it keeps the dimensions from, bleeding together, I guess is as good a way as any to describe what it is."

As comprehension came to Rossi, horror lit his eyes. "You mean, if Glory uses this Key…"

Kurt nodded the partially spoken question. "The world dies," he said.

"Then we better figure out a way to retrieve this Key," Rossi answered. He wanted to know how somebody like Buffy Summers came into possession of something like this Key. It didn't sound like the kind of thing that was just left lying around for anyone to pick up. It was a sort of thing that should be locked away in the most secure vault that could be found.

Or built.

Amanda shook her head. If Glory had somebody like Creed working for her it spoke volumes about the power at her command. Creed didn't strike her as the type to work for someone he didn't respect, and for Creed to respect someone they had to be more ruthless, more sadistic, and more powerful then he was. "We'd never survive an encounter with Glory. She's too strong for us."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. can have reinforcements here in six hours. Max."

"Numbers don't mean anything against Glory," Kurt told him. "Besides the X-Men will be here long before then. Will be able to plan effective strategy then."

Rossi didn't like it. He hated feeling like the fifth wheel on a tricycle. Right now he distinctly felt like a bit player in major production. "Be that as it may, the brass still needs to be kept up to speed." He didn't bother to inform anyone that Fury would have another team here by dawn if he had to shoot them out of a cannon. He didn't like that this simple operation suddenly needed a second unit, but the scope of this it had grown beyond what anybody could have anticipated back when he had picked up Pierson.

Now the world hangs in the balance.

Kurt nodded his head at Rossi's statement. He didn't doubt that Rossi would tell his superiors everything he knew. Still, he needed the man's help and could hardly expect it if he limited Rossi's access to his command structure. "We need to set up surveillance around Glory's. There are weapons that need to be gathered together, brought to the Magic Box. Plus there is this unique bookstore Spike says we should check out, the curator is a man called Doc. He may have information about Glory or the ritual she intends to use."

"Garis, Marcels, Lipton, Devlin," Rossi called out sharply. He turned to face the four men under his command as they gathered. "Set up a cordon around Glory's building. Anybody comes or goes I want to know about. Dawson and Amanda can bring the weapons to this Magic Box, wherever it is, while Blue Boy, Pierson, and myself will go pay this Doc guy a visit."

Amanda folded her arms across her chest. Her face was a determined mask as she said, "And what about Nick?"

"Agent Wolfe will be fine if we leave him alone," Rossi answered in a voice hard as stone. The idea of leaving Wolfe by himself tore his guts apart. The man was a fellow agent, and worse, he had been severely injured on his watch. "If things are as dire as you say, it's not like we can spare anybody to hold his hand." He looked towards the master bedroom. "We'll lock the doors. That oughta keep him from doing any damage."

Amanda seethed like never before. She uncoiled with the speed of the striking cobra, her aim was true and her tiny back-fist would have struck square against his left temple.

Only Methos was there.

He had anticipated her attack and caught her slim yet powerful arm before it gained any momentum. Amanda was tall for a woman, especially considering the time period she had been born in, and was able to look most men in the eye.

Methos still had to bend his stiff neck slightly to whisper in her ear, "The man's a federal officer… touch him and he can have you in a holding cell as long as he likes. Confinement really wouldn't suit you Amanda." He let go of Amanda's wrist and step back out of her personal space, giving himself a little room to work if she decided to redirect her temper in his direction.

Amanda was far from being his favorite person but if S.H.I.E.L.D. were to figure out what any of them were it would be end-of-life as they knew it. Enduring life as someone's property had as much appeal to him now as it did when he was a child.

He would see S.H.I.E.L.D. in ruins before he suffered that fate again.

In a placid voice Methos added, "Besides… he's right. Nick's as safe here as he is anywhere."

"Bastard," Amanda hissed. Her eyes never left Rossi, but it was unclear who she meant.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Thanks," Buffy said as she handed Scott back his headset.

"You're welcome," he answered slipping the head gear back on.

The tiny blonde heard Scott but didn't bother replying. Her gaze was staring at some unknown point out the Blackbird's front windshield. _This must be what a fish feels like looking out its bowl_?

She didn't know why either Kurt or Amanda would be gallivanting around with a group of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives and she hadn't thought to ask. Her only concern was Dawn, getting her back from Glory.

She had only mentioned the Magic Box because Scott had suggested the needed a place to plan a coordinated operation, preferably someplace that didn't have comfortable furniture. Giles had offered the Magic Box, much to Anya's ire.

Then Spike had brought up this Doc person. Personally she didn't know how much information a book collector could possibly have on Glory, but Spike had suggested it, so she passed it on to Kurt.

For some reason the thought of S.H.I.E.L.D. having an interest in Sunnydale made her more nervous then when she and the Scoobies had stumbled upon the Initiative. The illegally funded government operation was strictly small time compared to the international resources S.H.I.E.L.D. was capable of bringing to bear against their opposition.

She caught Spike's eye over the top of Logan's head. The vampire shrugged. There was nothing much they could do right now except wait. It was an activity Spike had never been very good at and Buffy wondered how he was going to cope with being stuck in the plane for another thirty minutes or so.

Logan stood up from where he had been squatting between the four people as he listened to Buffy's conversation with Kurt. He hadn't been paying a whole lot of attention to what had been said. His focus had been squarely on the scanner hardwired into the console. The scanner held its secrets tightly no matter how hard he stared at it.

He wanted to lash out, pop his claws and gut something. The vampire's presence wasn't helping his mood none. Neither was the presence of two slayers.

He knew he could stay there the rest of the flight, staring at that scanner. Doing that wouldn't accomplish anything and there were still a few tasks he needed to attend to.

One in particular.

He caught Buffy's eye. If what they said was true and a person's eyes were the windows to their soul than her eyes were kaleidoscope of emotions. There had to be something he could do to help her deal with the turmoil swirling around inside her. He knew Buffy was on the edge of an emotional breakdown, had known that aback at the motel, she just needed to hold on while longer. With everything going on now there was nothing else for her to do.

Grinding his teeth he placed a steadying hand on her thin, delicate seeming shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze. There were so many things he wished he could tell her, to assure her that everything was going to be all right. Only the words wouldn't leave his throat. He simply couldn't bring himself to lie, no matter how much the words needed to be said.

With a surly grunt, Logan turned and took a solid step away from the group. His footstep didn't make an audible sound on the metal deck. He assessed everyone he saw, quickly sizing them up with uncanny accuracy, noting strengths and weaknesses.

He sealed his eyes shut for length of a single heartbeat and pushed those instincts back down. Tried to push them away, into the dark where he wouldn't have to look at them. These were his friends, his family; he shouldn't be looking at them like they were his worst enemies.

It didn't work. The voice was still there, muted to a whisper, but it was an assistant whisper, snipping in his ear.

He ignored it the best he could as he made his way to the back of the plane.

Rogue reached out and grabbed Buffy's opposite hand.

Buffy looked down at this young girl she didn't know. A girl that had a bond with Logan she found enviable. A bond she doubted she would ever have with her father.

"You're not alone," Rogue said. Her voice sounded so confident, as if just by saying it she could make it true. "X-Men are family and we take care of own. No matter what."

It wasn't much, but it was something. Maybe if she believed enough she could make it true.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

The smoke grey aircraft settled to the ground smoothly. The ground underneath its landing struts sank in. Slowly the engines cycled down.

The craft looked like it could have come from an alien world. Its nose was thin and flat, sort of swooping oblong, nearly the length of a stretch limousine. It rose gracefully before leveling off. It was all one piece without any seams. There were no discernable wings; the engines were built directly into the aircraft and would vanish completely when the bulkheads spiral shut.

Compressed air being released hissed quietly. White puffs of air spurt out of vents as the gangway clinks open almost soundlessly. The hardened steel lowered with a stately slowness that displeased one individual greatly.

Glory wanted to be on the ground, she wanted the ritual to be over and done with as well. For the moment she would settle for being on the ground.

She would have been the first off the plane if Carol hadn't already given orders to a trio of Doom's finest android guards to scout her palatial manor.

"I could search quicker and more thoroughly in less time," Glory informed the woman. She walked down the gangway unconcerned with the possibility of there being an ambush.

Carol followed the smaller woman off the aircraft. There was a tiny smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Go ahead," she said with a shrug. "I won't lose no sleep."

Glory rolled her eyes as she tilted her head heavenward to stare up at the high star filled sky overhead. She turned around to face the taller woman. With the added height Carol seemed to loom over her. Behind the tall blonde, encircled by a ring of those damnable androids, was the prize, her prize anyway.

The Key.

The Key in the human wrapper.

Dawn Marie Summers.

She was a slayer's little sister; the annoyance that had been thwarting her desires for months now. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Glory. To save the world Buffy would have to kill Dawn.

Glory was more than willing to bet Buffy couldn't do that. If the Slayer had been capable of killing Dawn she would be dead already. Glory felt comfortable in the knowledge that Buffy would do everything in her power to keep her sister alive. So comfortable in fact that she was willing to grant Danvers a stay of execution.

Her smile was almost pleasant when she asked, "Lose sleep over what?"

Carol's smirk matched Glory's. "If anything were to happen to you, of course."

Glory's chuckle was uncharacteristically feminine. "In case it's escaped that pea sized brain of yours… I'm invulnerable. Invincible. Totally unbeatable."

"Of course you are?" Carol said with just a hint of questioning in her voice.

The sound of Carol's voice had begun to irritate Glory again. The smugness that filled it wormed its way under her skin. "And that means?"

"That means?" Carroll said turning back to face Glory. "This isn't the dark ages. We humans have come a long way since the stone hatchet. Us humans have managed to harness the power of the atom. Invent these things called nukes. There are also a fair number of humans born possessing that kind of power, but who knows, maybe your invulnerability would protect you from something like that, but… You're probably right. Why don't you go on in? You're circumspect, I'm sure none of your enemies have figured out where you are?"

"Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?" Glory asked Carol. She couldn't think of another reason the woman would bait her the way she was. It was always possible Carol was attempting to goad her into committing an impulsive act, such as attacking her, so Doom's battle droid's could implement their combat initiative. Glory wasn't about to play into Carol's hands. She could play coy, keep it cool. In a few short hours she would be home, this world would be… Well, there wouldn't be much of a world left after that. This was one cesspit she wouldn't mind being rid of.

Carol watched the wheels turning in Glory's head and wondered what the sociopath was thinking. The self-proclaimed god was in a remarkably good humor considering the insult she had been tossing around at her. Carol shook her head and said, "Nay. Just figured I'd take a moment to point out the painfully obvious to you since you're generally oblivious to it."

To Carol's amazement Glory threw her head back and laughed. Carol's light blue eyes crinkled at Glory's reaction. It was the last thing the hardened soldier had expected.

Slowly Glory refocused on Carol. "Any other day," she began, "you'd be dead right now. But, in a few hours I'll be home in this little backwater cesspit of world will be nothing but a distant, distant memory." She turned around on the gangway and started back down the ramp. "Today is going to be a very special day for me and you're not going to ruin it." Glory informed Carol as she strode down the gangway her heels clicked metallically with each step.

Carol would have heard more of what Glory said, but she had a hand to her ear and was listening to the report coming in. "We've got a problem." Her voice stopped Glory at the foot of the ramp.

The depose god turned around slowly; her good mood evaporating quickly. "What is it?" She asked in a dangerously low voice that crackled with her ire.

"While we were out tying up loose ends, somebody paid you a little visit. Creed's gone… So wasn't Wolfe, and your little toadies have all been shot. They appear to be in some type of suspended animation."

Glory exhaled heavily. "I hate this world!"

Carol could have sworn Glory was about two seconds from jumping up and down while throwing a first-class fit. She was just as glad Wolfe was gone. He was a loose end that needed to be tied up. With him gone she wouldn't have to end his life, a task she would find distasteful, but one she would carry out with a cold-blooded efficiency.

The situation did however provide her with the opportunity to dispose of Creed. The mutant was secured within the aircraft bulkhead. The small space provided the craft with adequate soundproofing. Inside the plane its powerful engines were barely audible.

"I hate this world!" Glory shouted with vehemence. She turned in a huff and stomped toward her palatial home.

Carol watched Glory walk away and shook her head. Her mood swings were indecipherable to Carol. Doom's lieutenant wasn't sure what the Hellgod was going to do. No matter how much help predicting her actions might have been, Carol was just as glad she wasn't able to get inside Glory's mind. "Keep the girl safe. Omega protocol, delta nine."

The air shimmered for a second. The five androids and Dawn vanished.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

In the back of the Blackbird, sitting on the steel bench seats that folded down out of the bulkhead along one wall were Tara, Willow, and Kitty. Along the other wall Bobby and Roberto were playing blackjack. A game the young Brazilian heir seemed extremely adept at. Bobby was beginning to think his adeptness might be more from quick hands then actual skill.

"…Had that ace three hands ago da Costa." Drake said indicating the ace of diamonds. There was more than a hint of frost in his eyes as he tapped the playing card. The flesh around his eyes had taken on an icy texture.

"…But when this line is added…" Kitty's index finger slid underneath the line of programming.

Tara was almost able to keep up with the two techno geeks babbling away in computer jargon. Almost meant that she was only three or four sentences behind the duo, but that was all right. Willow was in her element. When the blonde Wicca saw that gleam in her lover's eyes, a gleam normally reserved for her, a warm chill, like icy steam, caused small to goose bumps to pebble all over her flesh.

Every so often Kitty's eyes would flash toward their clasped hands and Tara thought she saw unspoken questions and the girl's chocolate brown eyes, but her gaze would shift and her conversation never flagged or wavered.

If not for her own convoluted thoughts Tara believed she could have already fathomed what was going on in Kitty's mind. As it was her gaze kept shifting toward the front of the plane, more specifically toward Spike.

Months ago the vampire had hit her to prove, not just to her family, but to her as well, that she was human. The chip went off and fifteen minutes later he was still agonizing over the mild migraine he had been left with.

Her brief encounter would Glory this evening, resonated in her. The hell god had called her a half breed. _What did she know_?

_And what about Spike_? _Had the master vampire been lying then_? _But if so, why_? _Why would he lie for her_?

Tara was hoping to get Spike alone, ask him just what he knew. If necessary she would drag the answers out of him by force. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to do that, but she would if need be.

She glanced towards the front of the blackbird and gasped. Looming in the doorway, like some dark and deadly wraith, was Logan. Her shocked utterance alerted everyone else to him standing there, watching them. Everyone turned to look where she was looking. The young mutants sat up a little straighter, as if coming to attention. Their eyes were a little wider and they appeared more on edge then at any other time Tara had seen them.

His presence was as silent as his arrival. He was a man of few words and when he set his mind on a course of action he stayed that course; saw it through to the bitter end.

The only person she has ever met with a steadier aura then Logan was Scott. Both of them were tainted by personal loss and grief. Neither of them would ever give up.

Logan took a shallow breath and exhaled. "Why don't you kids find someplace else to be?" His suggestion had the sound of an order. One that better be obeyed, and obeyed quickly.

The three teenagers bounded to their feet, Kitty taking a moment or two longer then the others as she carefully shut down her computer, and then edged their way past Logan. None of them were about to point out the fact that they were on a crowded plane with limited options. There was something in Logan's eyes that told them now wasn't the time.

Never taking his eyes off Willow and Tara he said, "Need to have a private word or two with the lovebirds here," combining an explanation and an apology together.

Willow swallowed reflexively. She had never seen eyes so intense before focused solely on her. If she were a betting person she would bet his words had something to do with the spell she cast on him a few days ago. They really had nothing else to talk about. Unless it was the impending apocalypse they wore racing towards. They had that in common as well.

"And what would those words be?" The redhead asked cautiously. The last thing she wanted to do was anger this man.

"That bit of Mojo you did isn't working out like advertised." Logan tried to make his voice sound pleasant; at least non-confrontational, but it came out sounding strained. Forced.

"I warned you, that nothing might happen." Willow made in admirable attempt at keeping her voice steady. She even managed to put a bit of bite into her next words as she said, "So you can't go getting all mad at us."

"Nothing ain't the problem." Logan replied.

Both girls shared a confused look with each other before returning their attention to Logan. Before Willow can say anything Tara asked, "What do you mean?" She was surprised there wasn't more of a tremor in her voice.

Despite what she saw in his aura the feral man put her in mind of her father. They were both prone to violent outburst. Logan, unlike her father, had never lifted a hand against her. She very much doubted if Logan was capable of brutalizing someone weaker than him.

"What do I mean?" Logan asked in a low voice that sounded like he was crunching gravel between his teeth. "That bit of hocus-pocus you did was supposed to give me my memories back…"

"It didn't?" Willow cut in.

Logan's glare silenced the redhead as he kept talking. "It did. If you call watching movies of your life having memories back, then your spell worked like a charm."

"I'm sorry," Willow apologized. When Buffy had first asked Tara and her to find some way to return Logan's memory she had envisioned doing just that.

Logan grunted away her apology as he said, "Doesn't matter…" Even with the rough texture of his voice both girls could hear the slight disappointment reverberating in it. "Did your best… That's all anybody can ever ask of you. It's all you can ever really give of yourselves." He paused and Willow was about to speak into the silence, but Tara's hand on her lover's forearm kept Willow silent. "I need you to figure out how I could've got somebody else's life playing in my head."

Willow shook her head saying, "That shouldn't be possible."

"The spell was specific," Tara added.

"Right. It was for your blood."

Tara nodded in agreement. "That's right. Was there anything specific about this other person?" Once again she was surprised not to hear her normal stammer.

"Other than the fact one of them looks just like me?"

Willow and Tara exchanged looks once again, and then turned back to Logan. "Just like you?" Willow asked with an unusual amount of authority in her voice.

"I could've used him to shave," Logan answered with a dry weariness.

"I don't know how something like that could be possible," Willow said with wonder. She looked up, her face hardened as she starred at Logan. "We still have a few minutes. What about the other people?"

Logan looked at her, his face made granite seem like a soft feather pillow. Willow could tell Logan didn't want to talk about this, but she wasn't going to back down. He had come to them for help. "It's a young girl," he finally spit out.


	18. Chap 10: Santa Fe Part 2

Chapter Ten: Santa Fe – Part Two

In the woods half a mile east of Sunnydale University Campus is a small clearing, just large enough to fit a passenger airliner in its confines.

Birds suddenly took to the air in a rush. Small animals scattered from the trees and forest floor.

A dull roar filled the air. The few stars filling the sky disappear as the Blackbird glides in gracefully. VTOL engines engage and the blackbird rotates like penguin sliding across a sheet of ice.

The small plane dropped to the ground with the suddenness of a leaf drifting to the earth below. The Blackbird settled to the ground gently. The landing struts absorbing the impact as the powerful engines cycle down. The back cargo bay doors opened, gears meshing as the long ramp of thin steel lowered to the ground.

"… Four hours," Proudstar said to Roberto who was slightly in front of him as they lead the way down the ramp.

"Westchester to Sunnydale," Sam put in. "We just might have set a new speed record?" He added in a thoughtful boast.

"Never would believe it if I hadn't flown it?" Proudstar said with a deep laugh.

Roberto smiled, an arrogant quirk to his lips. "I've flown in faster, jets my father has built for the Brazilian Air Force," he said with a superior tone.

He hesitated before stepping off the ramp. He was standing on the edge of the unknown, felt like he was staring into the eyes of wolf. Roberto would have been much more comfortable if the sun was cresting over the horizon right now. As it was he only had a few hours of solar reserves left.

Pushing his doubts aside, Roberto stepped off the ramp. Fear and hesitation were no part of his vocabulary. His father had made sure of that; made sure Roberto would be ready to run the company he had built up from nothing.

Rahne stood at the opening, looking out into, the starlit forest around her. Her senses weren't as good in human form as they were when she was in either of her lupine forms, but they were still superior to most of her other teammates. John's hearing and sight were a trifle better then hers.

There was Mr. Logan. She wasn't sure how good his senses were, but they seemed to be better then hers even when she was in her hybrid form.

It wasn't her senses that had her on edge. As far as the information they were busy sending her brain this was just like any other stretch of dense woodland.

Danielle stepped up besides the younger girl. There was nearly three quarters of a foot separating them and Danielle placed a reassuring hand on the tiny Scotswoman's shoulder. "Is everything all right?" She asked in a hush.

Johan and Sam were quick to follow Roberto off the Blackbird's ramp.

"What'd you think the girls are like?" Sam asked John glancing up at the big Apache.

John looked at Sam as if he was seeing the Kentucky hick for the first time. _Trust the hayseed to try and pick up girls at an apocalypse_. "da Costa," John called out. Roberto looked back. "If you go to an apocalypse looking for a date… You just might be a Redneck."

Roberto shook his head dismissively before he turned back to study the woods around them. He couldn't believe John had actually made that joke.

"My gut tells me we shouldn't be here," Rahne answered in her heavy brogue. Even after several weeks of sharing the same living space, Danielle could still only make out half to two thirds of what Rahne said.

A frown creased Sam's face as he stared at John. "I don't get it?" Sam knew John had made a joke, and it was at his expense, but the reference was beyond him.

Faith forced her way between the two girls. She was back in Sunnydale again, the second time in less then twenty-four hours, and this time Buffy and her friends were in town as well.

The anxiety of a first meeting though was already behind them and it hadn't been as excruciatingly painful as she had thought it would be. A pitched battle that didn't involve her and Buffy tearing into each other had seen to that.

Nothing had been settled between them. The situation they were in saw to that. Fate of the world had a way of shoving everything else onto a backburner.

Where it could simmer slowly.

Oddly though the thought of not settling things between her and Buffy didn't bother Faith that much. Even the fact that more then likely Sunnydale was going to see her dead and buried did little to disturb the brunette.

So long as Dawn was safe, Faith would count her own life as a small price to pay.

She owed it to Joyce for every vicious act she had committed against her family.

More importantly she owed it to Dawn.

The young girl had always believed in her, never said a word against her. Not even when she had been in Buffy's body and was goading her own. Dawn had been resolute in her belief in Faith. That she was a good person, that deep down she wanted to do what was right, but somewhere, somehow she had become lost and didn't know how anymore. That they just needed to be patient and understanding and try to help Faith remember who she had been.

Never once had Dawn sounded pretentious or arrogant or condescending. If anything she had been sad, resentful she wasn't able to do more, and angry at Buffy for not being a better friend in the first place; for letting things get so out of hand.

"When we get back to Westchester, remind me to introduce you to Jeff Foxworthy."

"He live anywhere near the school? Cause I don't think the Professor is going to let us off the grounds after this?"

"Man we've got to get a dish up on your roof," John said. At times Sam could be very exasperating.

"Got plenty of dishes back home, but I don't really think mama be all that happy if I put any of them on, the roof."

John's eyes widened at Sam's response. He constantly forgot how far in the backwoods of Kentucky Sam actually lived. He might have grown up on a reservation, but Sam was the one that grew up three days away from civilization. The house Sam had lived lacked even rudimentary amenities like indoor plumbing or a modern furnace or electricity.

Faith stepped onto the hard pack ground determined to return Dawn safely to the people that loved her. She just wished they could get to rescuing now instead of having to spend one second more around Willow, Xander, Giles, or Buffy. The forced politeness was beginning to grate on her.

"Should trust those instincts," Logan said from behind the pair. His arrival was as silent as it was sudden.

Danielle gave a small start at the sound of his unexpected words. Rahne had sensed Logan's approach, much like any animal is keenly aware of danger moving into their vicinity. "I do sir."

"I hope they managed to get everything to the Magic Box," Giles said as he, Scott, Spike, Buffy, Willow, Kitty, and Tara made their way to the ramp. Behind them Jubilation, Bobby, and Marie talked quietly. Duncan was bringing up the rear with Xander and Anya holding hands just in front of him.

"Is this where I think it is?" Buffy asked studying the scanner in Willow's hands. There was a strong look of disbelief in her eyes.

Willow looked at the machine. "If you're reading it right, it looks like."

"What?" Kitty asked glancing at the scanner over Buffy's shoulder. She might be considered tall for thirteen, but Buffy still had an inch on her.

"Should be hoping Doc is in a giving mood," Spike commented.

Scott turned his head slightly to regard Spike through the lens of his ruby quartz visor. "Thought you said he wouldn't be a problem?"

"Never said any such thing," Spike answered with a sharp glare. He had a serious dislike for people who heard what they wanted to hear. Staring at Scott's red visor was giving him something of a headache, a pinch right behind his eyes. It put the vampire in mind of the Cylons, just without the nauseating side-to-side motion. "He shouldn't, but he can get a mite fickle at times?"

"Dracula's castle," Buffy said.

Willow could hear the memories surfacing in Buffy's voice. So many things had changed since that first week in July.

"No way," Kitty breathed out. "There's no way Dracula's real."

"He's real," Buffy murmured.

"Ponce twit owes me eleven pounds," Spike tossed back at the three girls. "And you had to go and chase him out of town…"

"That would have been extremely helpful piece of information we could have passed along?"

Spike shrugged at Giles questioning statement, a bit of annoyance sparkling in his eyes. "Suppose it would of," he said fishing his pack of cigarettes from his duster pocket.

Buffy's gaze ranged outward, at the youngsters beginning to fan out. Her attention snapped back to the moment. "Hey?" She shouted. Her voice carried to the students but not much further. "This ain't Xavier's, it isn't the buck woods of Kentucky, your daddy's Brazilian estate, or the reservation. This is Sunnydale. It doesn't matter what your powers. Here, a misstep can kill you."

John turned violently on Buffy, his face was a set mask as he glared up at the tiny blonde looking down at them from halfway up the ramp. Unlike most of the students that attend Xavier's School, he was accounted a man by his people. More then that, he was recognized as a great warrior. "I don't know who the hell you think you are lady…"

"Tread easy," Logan growled from deep in his chest.

John didn't acknowledge Logan. "…but we ain't some Brownie Troop that needs you to hold our hand while we cross the street."

"You've got no idea what Sunnydale is like," Xander barked from the top of the ramp. He wasn't about to let these super powered kids talk that way to Buffy.

"We don't know Sunnydale," Jubilation said from behind Xander.

"Sunnydale is dangerous," John admitted.

"Then again, you don't know us."

A slow grin spread across John's lips. Excitement dawned in his eyes. "But so are we." His voice was a calm hush.

Buffy had the vague impression that John Proudstar was a warrior she would have to take seriously.

A bright light, the size of a superball, hurtled out of the Blackbird. Buffy watched as it flew through the air, a radiant gold ball that shimmered and sparkled in the darkness.

A crimson beam suddenly sluiced the air at a slight upward angle, a short pulse that enveloped the golden ball and punched it skyward.

Behind her, Buffy heard Jubilation gasp in surprise. At the same time the golden ball exploded in a brilliant shower of sparks. The concussive wave of the explosion brushed past her, muted somewhat because she was still nestled under the planes canopy. Still she found herself squinting her eyes against the pressure wave.

At the foot of the ramp Scott was down on one knee. His right hand was just coming away from the side of his head. He turned his head to stare up the ramp.

Buffy thought he was glaring at her, but she quickly realized his gaze had settled on a point beyond her.

Faith stood up and tossed the ruins of her partially smoked cigarette aside. There was a look of pure murder in the brunette's eyes.

Other students were pulling themselves to their feet. Angry grumblings filled the clearing.

"Damn it Jubes…"

"Christ…"

"… a bit more careful next time…"

"It's not my fault," Jubilation declared. "It was only supposed to be a little pop, but Scott… I wasn't expecting… and it just kind of…"

"Stow it people," Scott ordered and instantly the group of teenagers fell silent. There were still a few quiet rumblings here and there, but Scott's red glare settled them soon enough.

Buffy was surprised that Scott didn't have to shout or cajole. That all it took him was a few softly spoken words and this group of youngsters had settled down. She suspected Scott was the sort of person who demanded perfection in both himself and in others. The sort of person that worked very hard, not only to gain, but also maintain, a certain level of respect from those around him.

These kids certainly had truckloads of it for him.

"We're here on mission, not to check out local color. This is Buffy's town, she says Sunnydale is dangerous you treat it as hostile territory. Stay in squad strength at all time unless the situation dictates otherwise. Comms stay on at all time so keep the chatter to a minimum."

Again Buffy was impressed with Scott, the way he was able to take command, how he seemed to know exactly what to do, what orders to give. It was so unlike her, always fumbling her way through things, normally grasping at whatever meager plan fell into her lap and hoping she could improvise her way to a victory.

"While we're in Sunnydale, Buffy is my second." More then a handful of shocked gasps and mumbled groans filled the clearing. From the Scoob's as well as the young mutants.

Nobody was more surprised then Buffy. Even amongst her friends she hardly considered herself the leader. They normally came up with plans together and while she had the final say on a course of action it was more because she had to carry the brunt of the load then with her being the leader.

"You'll follow her orders as if they were my own. Is that understood?" His glare traveled around the clearing, the stony set of his jaw challenged anybody to disagree with him.

"Now that that's settled… Faith,"

"Something's never change," Faith grumbled.

"…Wolfsbane. You're on point. Keep your eyes open and your ears peeled."

Hearing her codename Rahne strode away. That something unknown still roiled in her gut. The last thing she wanted to do was range ahead of everyone, but her friends and teammates were depending on her.

On her second step Rahne's body began to morph, almost as if it were melting and elongating all at the same time. She knew Buffy and her friends wouldn't be ready for her hybrid form so the young girl opted for her wolf-self.

In a heartbeat the transformation was over. Where the tiny redhead had stood was a majestic looking wolf whose dark fur was the exact same shade of fiery red as Rahne's short cropped hair.

"Fuck," Faith breathed out.

"A werewolf," Buffy said as she tensed. "Why the hell didn't you mention she was a werewolf?"

"Buffy," Willow said urgently. Her finger pointing at the crescent moon riding high in the sky. "Look."

Buffy glanced up then back at Rahne. It was obvious she was missing something. "How?"

"It's her mutation," Scott said. "Rahne's possesses a limited form of shape-shifting. She's able to shift between her human form, a wolf, and a hybrid form."

"A lycanthrope," Giles said.

"Probably not the type you're used to dealing with," Scott answered.

"Rahne can change shape at will," Danielle said.

Faith knelt down on one knee to bring herself eye level with the young wolf. She knew this girl was nothing like Oz. He had been bitten, cursed to spend the rest of his life as some unnatural monster. This creature in front of her was natural.

Rahne tilted her head as she regarded Faith. Her eyes glinted like emeralds in the pale light. There was something in Faith's scent that sparked her curiosity. It was in Buffy's as well. It was dark and powerful, not of this world, it carved the hunt and the fight, thrilled in the moment of death.

Faith reached out slowly, trying not to frighten the wolf. Her fingers brushed over a thick coat of velvety smooth fur. "Wow," Faith exhaled as she slicked back a patch of red fur, then proceeded to scratch behind her ear.

Rahne accepted the attention with as much good of a grace as she possessed. She could sense Faith's excitement. For the first time since she met the brunette Slayer, Faith was both relaxed and completely unguarded. Rahne couldn't help but feel a slight amount of pleasure at being the cause, still there was a certain amount of decorum, of dignity that needed to be maintained and Faith was pushing the bounds of both.

"Um, Faith," Danielle was a little hesitant and it showed in her voice.

"Yeah," Faith said. Her voice sounded as if she were somewhere else, on the other side of the planet, the moon itself. She heard with someone else's ears.

Danielle took a deep breath hearing the distant quality in Faith's voice. "I'm not sure if you're aware of this or not, but wolves aren't dogs? They really don't like people touching them."

"Your point?" Faith asked with only a slight look back. For the first time she actually seemed aware of the people around her. But she also sounded more determined not to let anyone disturb her.

"That might be Rahne," Danielle continued. She could feel everyone's eyes on her and she didn't find it to be a very pleasant experience. "She's also a wolf. Like a Rahne-wolf…"

"Would that be anything like an Airwolf?" Spike asked no one. His question was met with silence and a few pointed glares. Mostly silence.

Danielle didn't even hear the vampire as she continued speaking. "… And while she's really happy that you're really happy, but… She'd really appreciate it if you'd stop that."

Faith glanced back at Danielle. The question was clear in her eyes if not in her voice.

Danielle exhaled. Having people gawk at her because she was Cheyenne was bad enough, but even that was small change compared to when they found out she was a mutant. Explaining her powers made her feel like a freak on display. Everybody watching her, waiting to see if she was going to grow a third eye, or suddenly sprout horns.

"One of Danielle's powers is a form of animal telepathy," Scott said in that dry monotone. "She hasn't had the chance to develop it yet because it's a rather recent discovery."

Worse she hated somebody else explaining her powers.

"Move out people… Spike, Thunderbird cover our back, Wolverine…" Scott looked around but Logan was nowhere to be seen. "Never mind," he added to himself. He turned and looked at Buffy as everybody began to move out. "Buffy, Rupert, Duncan… We need to have a conversation, clear the air as it were?"

Jubilation walked past Scott and the others with little concern. At least she wasn't showing any nervousness. To Buffy the girl looked like a live wire dancing in a busy street.

"Jubilee," Scott said without looking at her. The girl stopped in mid stride. Scott turned around and regarded the young girl somberly.

Buffy thought Scott was always somber.

"If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I'll make sure the Professor keeps you so loaded down with work the next time you have a free moment is graduation… College graduation. Is that understood?"

Jubilation's head dropped as she murmured, "Yes sir." The girl definitely sounded properly chastised.

Then the steel like veneer dropped away from Scott as he reached out and lifted her chin forcing the young girl to look at him. "You've only been at the School a few months now and you've come a long way in a short time, but you got startled and you couldn't control it, the bomb surged on you. You just need to learn a little patience."

Jubilee nodded, a small little bob of her head. Scott wasn't certain if patience would ever find the young girl. She was quite possibly the most outgoing person he has ever known, and she normally didn't stop to think about anything until it was three days later.

Duncan waited for Jubilation to move away. "Such as?" He asked cautiously.

"I don't want to be stepping on anybody's toes, but I have the feeling I just might have stepped on everyone's."

"I've spent most of my life taking orders from men younger then me." Duncan looked around at all the young faces. "Besides I've no desire…" He shook his head and then settled his gaze back on Scott. "There're too many faces…" He tapped his temple.

"I've only seen you in action… What, all of five minutes now, intimidating a bunch of teenagers, but hey… Impressive."

Scott quirked an eyebrow at the blonde. It was impossible to tell if she was serious or not. "Sunnydale is your town, you've faced Glory half a dozen times. Nobody knows more about her then you. While we're planning strategies your expertise is going to be invaluable. Yours as well Rupert, probably the rest…"

"Scott," Buffy started, her voice losing the California bubblehead attitude she's perfected over the years. "What you did back in that clearing, I never could've done anything like that. Everybody chips in with the research or movie night, but mostly I'm a solo act. Sure, every now and then Will or Xander or somebody else tags along with me while I'm on patrol… Normally, I just have to watch out for myself. As far as being responsible for anybody else…"

"Anything happens to me…"

"Anything happens to you and I'll kill you myself," Buffy informed Scott with such innocence he was sure if she wasn't serious. At least he thought she wasn't. "It's the least I can do for an almost cousin. Kurt likes to talk," she said to his questioning look.

"Remind me to thank him."

"Especially after he's been drugged," she added with casual indifference.

"Never had a cousin before?"

"They're overrated," Buffy informed him. "Don't see them for years on end and then when they do drop in, all unexpected, they eat you out of house and home. Never mind the water bill…"


	19. Chap 10: Santa Fe Part 3

Chapter Ten: Santa Fe – Part Three

Glory stared at herself in the mirror, her black gown shimmering as it clung to her body, shifting with even her smallest movements. Her face looked haggard as she poked and prodded at the malleable flesh. It felt…

It was starting to feel naturally, as if this was how it was suppose to be. As if this was the body she had been born to. As if she had been born at all.

Her fist lashed out and the mirror shattered, spraying glass slivers.

She hadn't been born. She had been deposed, exiled, forced to share time in this bag of flesh and bones. Forced to share an existence with Ben.

The door to her chamber thudded open. "Highness?" Murk's hesitant voice floated to her. Slowly the scabberous demon entered her private chamber. Its diffident voice droned in her ears as it spoke incessantly. "Is everything all right your most Holiest Splendor Gloricificous?"

Her glassy eye stare stopped him more abruptly then any shouted command. She felt tired. More then tired. Raising her faithful, if overly incompetent minions, had left her drained. Exhausted in a way she had never felt before.

The only times she ever felt weak was when she needed sustenance, the psyche energy a human mind provided for her.

This wasn't like that. This was physical.

_Welcome to being merely human_. Ben's voice mocked her.

For a long time Ben used to leave her notes, asking her to leave him his life. They stopped soon after she started leaving him detailed descriptions of her activities. The first time she heard his voice was when he recorded the message on tape. It was the first, the only time she ever heard his voice.

To return the favor she video taped herself absorbing his girlfriend's psychic energy. After that Ben lived a very solitary life with few relationships. If he did get too close she was sure to leave him a present. A reminder of who was in control.

Glory grabbed hold of her skull, her long hair tangled around her fingers as they pressed into her flesh. Even after all these years she still recognized his whine. "Get out!" She snarled at him.

Murk took only a heartbeat to back out of the portal he just passed through. He had seen many of Glory's destructive mood swings in the past and had no desire to endure another. She had ordered him out and he wasn't fool enough to disobey her.

"What do you want?" She could feel him, swimming inside of her. A hundred thousand maggots, slick under her flesh.

In her mind.

This wasn't how it ever happened. She wasn't weak, drained of all her energy, simply tired.

_And the worm begins to turn_.

"What do you want?" She demanded. Her voice was the low rumble of distant thunder filling her ears.

_To hurt you_.

"Like I've hurt you? Poor whining piece of rotting flesh. You'll never be able to hurt me. You can't even touch me."

_There are other ways_—"—to hurt people."

Glory lurched around, looking for her mirror. She had heard him and not just in her head, but it had been her mouth that had spoken the words.

_You taught me that_.

"There's nothing you can do."

_You're getting weaker. It's only a matter of time_…

"Until you're strong enough?" Glory laughed at him. "What then? How are you gonna get close to Dawn? Coral would just love for you to show your face. Have her little android soldiers fill you full of holes. It might kill me to. Then again, it might just set me free, free of your shackle."

Glory smiled at the silence. It was a thin, malicious grin that would have froze the blood of anyone who saw it.

Ben felt it like it was his own. If he possessed a physical body he would have emptied his stomach, feeling the oily vileness crawling across his flesh.

"What's the matter dear, dear Ben. Second thoughts when it's your life on the line? Thought you'd do anything to be rid of me? Or was that just tough guy talk?" Her voice had taken on an insidious mocking texture. "We don't have to be enemies in this."

_You're a sadistic bitch who thrives on inflicting pain and suffering_.

Glory shrugged at the statement. "I am product of my environment," she says offhandedly. She could feel Ben stiffen inside of her. "Listen, if we don't work with each other. If we keep fighting, neither of us is going to get what we want."

"How would you know what—"–_I want_?

"Silly, silly Ben I can feel you. Your desire to live your own life…"

"And if you use Dawn—"—_this world, this universe will be destroyed_.

"I forget how simple you are, how limited your mind is."

_What_?

"You're so fascinated by a ripple in a pond that you never realize there's an entire ocean full of waves all around you."

_Now you're sprouting fortune cookie philosophies_… _You didn't eat Mr. Wong_?

Glory's face scrunched up as she said, "What? You know, never mind. This is, one reality in a limitless possibility of realities."

_You're going to_— "—Kill Dawn!"

"Dawn's either going to die or she's going to spend the rest of her life wishing she was dead." Glory hopped up onto her dresser. "If Doom winds up with her, the things he'll do to her… You'll wish you killed Dawn yourself."

_You're lying_!

"You know I'm not," she returned surprised by how calm she was remaining. "We'll either be stuck with each other for all eternity. Or dead? Doom will have Dawn, he'll be running all types of twisted experiments on her… Or we bleed Dawn, I go home and you got your choice of realities to call your own. What do you say Ben?"

Silence was her only answer. She could still feel him, twisting and turning himself into knots of moral ambiguity. She couldn't help but wonder, with all the filth and flotsam filling human society, how she got stuck with the lone upstanding kernel of humankind.

"Any time Ben." Her annoyance, her anxiety quivered in the air with her words.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"What reason would I have to betray you? I'll have all my power, and I don't forget the people that help me." Again there was only silence. "Let me sweeten the pot, new reality, immortality… What else do you want?"

"What do you want?"

"The body," she answered. "No opposition. Once I've been returned to my seat of power, everything you want is yours."

* * *

The chamber wasn't very large, as far as Dawn was concerned. Any room with six of Doom's battle-droids would appear small. Add Carol Danvers to the mix and the room seemed positively tiny, microscopic.

Dawn watched Carol as the tall woman studied the readout displayed on her scanner. Her bearing reminded Dawn of Riley, only more intense. They both possessed that same military crispness.

Coral frowned sourly. There were quite a few anomalies with the genetic samples taken from Dawn. Most of it was meaningless jargon to Carol, as far as she was concerned it would take someone with considerably more scientific know how to make heads or tails out of the data she was looking at. There was one data stream she understood; and it left her flabbergasted, though she didn't allow any emotion to show.

Preliminary test on a single drop of her blood had generated enough energy to power the North American continent.

Several times over.

Or turn this planet into another asteroid belt.

The energy was unstable.

If Doom was able to harness it, he would change the balance of world power.

She looked up, focusing her attention on Dawn, expression as stoic as ever. Dawn swallowed hard under the woman's intense glare. Dawn found Coral's gaze to be cold, as if she lacked the more human emotions.

"You truly are the key?"

Dawn swallowed again. She had expected to hear greed, envy, even desire. Something besides the extreme blandness that dominated her voice. Only there wasn't, and that frightened Dawn as much as anything.

Coral shut her scanner down, then slipped it into her belt pouch. The sophisticated piece of electronic hardware was a fraction the size of a palm pilot, half again as big as a cassette walkman, only thinner.

"When Glory said you were the Key, I thought she had flipped her deity obsessed brain. Not that she had all that far to go in the first place, but it looks like she knew what she was talking about," Coral said pleasantly, as if she were simply making conversation with an old comrade whose been out of touch for quite some time.

Dawn kept her mouth shut. In a lot of ways, Coral reminded her of Buffy. Both of them were so intense, though Coral didn't bother to hide it behind the fake, bubbly airhead, California Valley Girl façade like Buffy. To Dawn, Coral seemed to take a great deal of pride in her professionalism.

Coral nodded at Dawn's reticence, an understanding smile quirked the right corner of her lips. "It's all right. I doubt I'd be all that chatty with the people holding me captive either. Once our business in Sunnydale is concluded, Lord Doom will see to it that you lack nothing. He is very generous with those who serve him well."

"You don't work for Glory—Not one of her minions?" Dawn blurted out in a hastened breath.

Coral's face scrunched up, eyes narrowed and nostrils pinched together. "Please." There was no possible way for her to disguise the amount of disgust filling the single word. "I'm working with Glory because Lord Doom requires the Key-"

"You've got to get me out of here."

The mouse transformed into a lion startled Coral. Dawn's tone had been an odd mix between imperial command and hopeful whine. "Lord Doom also requires Glory to be… Elsewhere. If I were to simply take you to Latveria, Lord Doom foresees her becoming a mildly irritating nuisance, one that would be best dealt with by removing from this plane of existence."

Dawn felt her already chilled blood freeze in her veins, felt her temperature drop one degree at a time as Coral explained everything. Numbly she mumbled, "You don't know?"

If she thought Coral's eyes were hard before, they were like pools of jingling lime jello compared to ragged edge shards of jade now. She couldn't have been more wrong then thinking Coral and Buffy were alike. Coral would destroy her without hesitation if she perceived her to be a great enough threat.

"Know what?" Coral demanded.

There wasn't any choice of denying Coral the answers she wanted. Trying would only result in pain. "If Glory opens the portal the world, the universe will… Not destroyed, but altered as all the dimensions spill into each other creating this sort of primordial chaos that existed before the Key was created to separate all the dimensions, and bring order to the universe."

Coral measured Dawn with a long, searching gaze. It was a fantastic story. A little too fantastic. Coral suspected Dawn would say nearly anything to free herself, only Dawn looked more composed and steadier then any other time Coral could remember. "Just how'd you come across this?"

"Glory told me," Dawn answered calmly.

"You two get together for milk and cookies often?"

Dawn's face flushed and her eyes shot daggers at Coral and suddenly a memory clicked into place. "I was talking with Ben, at the hospital. It was just after…" She looked down biting off what she had been going to say. Coral didn't need to know anymore about her then she already did. "He's a doctor, nice…" She returned her attention to Coral. "… a good man. I was lost and he found me, got me something to eat and we started talking. I don't really remember what, but somehow he figured out I was the Key, then he got all weird and told me I had to get out of there and then Glory was there. He just changed in front of me."

"And you're just remembering this now?" Coral asked with a great deal of skepticism.

Dawn looked Coral straight in the eyes and said, "Magic."

Coral could hardly refute Dawn's claim. Lord Doom was a skilled practitioner of the craft.

She would need detailed information before contacting Lord Doom in order to revise their strategy. "If you want a chance to survive past morning, you're gonna have to tell me everything you know."

A hard knot formed in the pit of Dawn's stomach. She couldn't trust Coral, the woman wasn't Glory's minion, but rather a servant of Victor von Doom, the supreme Lord and master of Latveria, a small nation located in the heart of central Europe. At this point Dawn wasn't sure which was worse, or if there was any difference. She had grown up hearing stories of Victor von Doom, he was a daily news item, his every move chronicled by the press. Many considered him one of the smartest men on the planet, with only a handful that matched his intellect, and fewer still that surpassed it. He also ran one of the world's largest international conglomerates and was often seen traipsing the globe, often accompanied by his fiancee Susan Storm. Recently, shortly after an accident in space, their relationship collapsed and he began avoiding the media.

It was right around the time when her life spun out of control, if it had ever actually been in control. She had taken a perverse sort of pleasure from the fact that even the rich and mighty weren't immune to life's cruel twists. At times, she thought karma sucked.

Dawn did find one good aspect about the fact she was dealing with Coral Danvers and Victor von Doom over Glory.

Neither of them were a bonafide god.


	20. Chap 10: Santa Fe Part 4

Chapter Ten: Santa Fe – Part Four

"Is this the place," Rossi asked jerking his thumb at the quaint little building nestled just off the mouth of a dark Sunnydale alley. Rossi thought those words were used far too often, Sunnydale and dark alley. They were becoming synonymous with each other, like Philadelphia and Cheese steak, Poland and Sausage, Religion and hypocrites, Los Vegas and Elvis Impersonators, Marriage and Divorce.

Rossi didn't like the setting one bit. It felt like he was walking in to a retro sixties horror movie. One of those cheap things, complete with brain eating zombies.

"Ja," Kurt said hanging upside down from the eaves, "This is where Spike brought Dawn."

Methos stared in at the window, but a dark light spilled out of smoke covered frames. The place was filled with a dark presence.

"I don't like it," Rossi announced. He sounded like his opinion mattered a wit to them. "If Spike knows this Doc," he said looking up at Kurt. He quickly averted his gaze finding the mutants yellow eye stare to be too disconcerting. "This entire endeavor might be nothing but a set up."

"Walking off the curb can be a set up," Methos remarked dryly. "Or would that be a step down?"

"Spike…" Kurt shook his head. "They were here for Joyce. A resurrection spell."

Rossi looked up in disbelief. "Resurrection. Magic." There was scorn in his voice, scorn that such things were being given any weight in serious conversation. "There is no such thing."

"And you've traveled so very far?" Methos asked rhetorically. "Seen all there is to see, beheld all the wonders that exist in haven and hell?"

"I know what's possible and what isn't," Rossi spat with conviction. "Bringing the dead back to life ain't."

Methos smiled at him, a humorless smile that was touched with sadness, with pity. He could remember a time when he had sounded very much like Special Agent Michael Rossi; so sure of all the secrets this world held. "Almost nothing is impossible Agent Rossi. So long as you know where to look and you're willing to pay their price…"

Kurt dropped from his perch, twisted in the air, and landed in a crouch with a soft thud. His black trench coat flared out over the pavement. With a showman like flourish he deftly twirled his Fedora end over end until it rested comfortably on his head.

""…Some things, some things aren't worth it. No matter how good a deal you think you've struck."

"Are you about done," Rossi asked with a contemptuous glare.

Methos eyes seemed to sparkle with black mirth. "Lead on," He said in a voice that matched his eyes. There was something decidedly viscous in them.

Kurt rose to his full height. He didn't like the mood of his companions.

Rossi twisted the knob and forced his way into the shop. A small bell above the door twinkled brightly; it was a complete contrast to the dark gloom that pervaded the interior. The lighting was poor, kept to a bare minimum that was maintained by a few lamps and dozens of candles scattered throughout the shop. Deep shadows seemed to dance as the candles flickered in the slight breeze.

"Hello," Rossi called out as he moved into the shop.

The strange little man's sudden appearance reminded Rossi of Kurt's teleportation, only the strings of beads leading to a back room were clacking together restlessly, as if someone had just brushed their way past them.

The man reminded Rossi of a mouse, maybe a gerbil or hamster, a harmless little rodent. Then he reminded himself that rodents were hardly harmless. While they might look all cute and fuzzy, they also carried a whole host of diseases.

"We're close," he announced roughly.

"Door was open," Rossi indicated. "Dangerous in any town. In Sunnydale most might consider that borderline suicide."

Doc appeared unfazed by the insinuation. "Come back tomorrow during regular business hours. Eleven am to midnight. I'll be able to help you find whatever it is you're looking for." There was a note of dark humor in his voice, as if he found something extremely funny. Something nobody else was aware of.

"I think we really have to insist," Methos said entering the store.

Kurt stepped in right behind him. Everything suddenly felt wrong. It was like he could feel his soul screaming, wailing in pained anguish. His stomach churned, roiled and railed. He wanted to fall to the floor, cry and laugh by turn.

Doc's eyes narrowed as he stared at Methos, as if he was seeing something he never expected to see; never expected to see here at any rate. "Morte," Doc said in an ancient tongue. His voice was subdued filled with reverence in fear. "Fratello a Tempo, Follia, Terra. Abbandonato dalla sua propria mano—"

"Chi l'inferno è voi?"

Rossi's gun, a standard issue nine-millimeter pulse pistol, seemed to leap into his hands as he drew and aimed at Doc in one smooth motion. He turned his head slightly to focus on Pierson but still kept Doc in his periphery. "What the fuck did you just say?" He demanded in a savage little growl.

There was something truly wrong, truly evil about this place. He could feel it in the very depths of his soul. Feel it gnawing at him, trying to worm its way inside him.

A soft groan caused Rossi to shift his gaze even further. A hushed gasp escaped his mouth when he saw Kurt. The lines carved into his flesh glowed a ghostly blue. There was something reassuring in that glow, as if someone were smiling down upon them. Watching them.

"Look out!" Methos shouted as he surged forward knocking Rossi out of the way.

Rossi hit the floor hard, almost lost his grip on his gun but managed to hold on. He heard Pierson cry out in pain and rage. He rolled to a knee, everything seemed to slow from one heartbeat to the next as he swiveled, drawing a bead on Doc.

He could feel the sweet trickle down his back, could feel his heart contract and pump, could see droplets of blood fountain outward from the gaping hole in Pierson's shoulder, could see Kurt tense as he prepared to teleport, could see the slick gray tentacle with the harpoon like barb at the end recoil back into Doc's abdomen with a wet slurping sound that made him want to squeeze his eyes shut as if he were some child who wished all the bad things would just go away.

He wasn't a child, he was a man and he knew the only way the bad things went away was when they were put away.

He forced his eyes to remain open and squeezed off three rounds. There was barely any recoil, nothing like a standard nine-millimeter pistol, as it spat out the three rounds with soft pffts.

They flew straight and true.

He could see the look of concern on Doc's face, see the fear grow in his eyes.

His heart contracted, it relaxed and pumped.

The world snapped back.

The soft bamf as air rushed to fill the spot Kurt had just vacated. Sulfurous smoke filled the air, the odor filled his nostril.

Doc vanished from where he had been, his movements a blur as he streamed across the room, knocking Rossi's gun from his hand with a negligent back hand slap.

Kurt appeared in a cloud of smoke, he slipped and twisted, throwing himself out of the way of the bullets Rossi fired.

"What a nasty…" Doc began as he grabbed Rossi by the throat. His fingers squeezing his neck, nails slicing flesh.

Kurt vanished in another burst of smoke.

Rossi slugged Doc hard across the jaw turning his head to the right. Doc looked back, something akin to amusement in his eyes. "Wonder what we'd find if we boiled you up?"

Another bamf and a grey cloud of smoke heralded Kurt's arrival. His foot lashed out, connecting with Doc's forehead knocking him back a step, but didn't break his grip on Rossi's throat. Kurt vanished again, reappearing directly behind Doc, the bamf's coming so close together they almost sounded like one.

The smoke hung thick in the air.

Kurt's punch smashed into the back of Doc's head. Doc spun to his left, his spinning backfist swept pass the spot Kurt's head recently vacated. It disturbed nothing but smoke; his other hand tightening on Rossi's throat. Rossi's left fist crashed into Doc's right temple forcing him to take a step. Kurt reappeared across the room ready to take part again, looking for a place to go.

Steel flashed in the pale light. Doc gasped in pain and surprise as razor sharp metal sliced through his body. He let go of Rossi and grabbed hold of the gleaming blade as he stared Methos in the eyes. Cold, merciless eyes. Eyes that look at him with dark serenity.

Methos twisted the blade, stepped forward, and drove the sword to it's hilt.

Doc gasped again, dropping to his knees. "I thought it would take you…"

Methos twisted again then jerked his sword out of Doc's chest, perhaps with a touch more savageness then he needed, but he really didn't like this creature; mutant, demon… whatever it was. It made his skin crawl. Doc fell to the floor, hit with a dull sort of thud, a lifeless sound and didn't move again.

"Mein Gott!" Kurt cried out, too late to prevent anything, to change anything. "You killed him."

Rossi pulled blood smeared fingers back from his throat, coughing slightly as he forced himself back to his feet.

Methos turned his attention to Kurt. The baby he had left with the Kalderash had certainly grown into an upstanding young man with all the moral righteousness youth allowed. He kept his face schooled to stillness with bland indifference to what people thought of him. "In case you didn't notice…" He pointed his sword at the body lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor. "…he was trying to kill us."

"You didn't have to kill him, we could have… There had to be a way," Kurt insisted. He glared up at Methos, looking more demonic then most demons. "If we looked for it."

Methos worked his left shoulder, wincing slightly as the wound knit itself back together. "While you figure…"

"Stow it," Rossi snarled as he stood back up from retrieving his gun. "Grab whatever looks like it might be useful…"

* * *

Buffy fished her key to the Magic Box out of her pocket. The last time they were here, planning their great escape, Buffy thought it was going to be the very last time. She found it a little amusing and a bit annoying how her life kept throwing these little ironies at her.

Slipping the slim key into the lock, twisting it, hearing the lock click made Buffy feel like she had come home. There was a sense of rightness as the door swung open and the bell overhead chimed.

A vision of Glory waiting inside filled her mind. She reached inside and flicked the switch up. The overhead fluorescents flickered weakly. The interior bounced back and forth between heavy, shadow filled light and darkness.

After a moment the fluorescents steadied and bathed the Magic Box in a gentle luminescence. It looked just like she remembered, shelves filled with all kinds of little curiosities. Books lined most of the walls.

Buffy took a deep breath as she slipped inside. There was a stale odor in the air, but that simply meant nobody had been in the building since they left. She held the door open and turned to face the assembled group waiting patiently behind her.

"Welcome to The Magic Box." The words seemed to bring the crowd alive. They began to file past her, talking quietly among themselves.

"… A comedian?"

"Right."

"And he does those…"

"Two hours away,"

"We can't just…"

She didn't listen to them…

"Later, Once we're…"

"As long as the connections are still good."

…barely saw them…

"She just ran out of power."

"We can probably get her up and running again. Maybe even…"

"You think we can do that?"

…didn't wonder how many of them wouldn't live to see sunrise.

"Maybe update her programming…"

"… His own jet?"

"Several, jets actually."

"Third richest person…"

"In all of Brazil."

There were so many faces, too many. Duncan had mentioned seeing faces. That was something she didn't want…

Ever.

"Are you all right?" Giles voice cut through the haze.

Buffy looked around, and realized her and Giles were the only ones standing in the doorway. She wondered how long she had been standing like that. Ten seconds, thirty, a minute, ten minutes? An hour could have passed and she wouldn't have known the difference. "Fine," Buffy said after what felt like an eternity. "Just, a lot going on."

"Understandable," Giles murmured. He pushed his glasses back up above the bridge of his nose. "I know this is a difficult time, but you need to preserver, maintain…"

"I know Giles," Buffy cut in softly. "People counting on me, fate of the world… Yadda, yadda, yadda."

"Yes well…" Giles stammered slightly. Buffy could be so flippant at times, like now, that he was never really sure when she was making light of the most dire situations and when she was giving them the attention they were due. He simply smiled at her and added, "As long as you understand what's at stake."

"You break it, you bought it,"

* * *

The Magic Box was packed. Giles was fairly certain the small specialty shop had never seen this many people since he bought the establishment midway through last year. Not at one time anyway and quite possible not taken all together either.

The problem being, nobody was here to buy anything. True most of the students from Xavier's School looked around, but after Anya's admonishments and declarations that was all they did. They did ask questions at first, what this was? What that did? What was that used for? Questions he would have tactfully sidestepped, only they asked Anya, who, in his opinion, was far too forthcoming.

They had only been at the Magic Box a few minutes before the others had begun to arrive, Amanda with a man he had never met before. A salt and pepper haired old man whose face had been tempered by age and experience; his dark eyes were still bright and sparked with a keen intelligence. Joe Dawson was a Watcher, but not like him. He was part of an organization that watched, but never interfered with, Immortals and their game. It was his job to chronicle the exploits of one Immortal, in this case, Duncan Macleod.

Once this business with Glory was settled, to his satisfaction, Giles would dearly love to have a chance to pick Dawson's brain. Compare histories so to speak.

Shortly after Amanda and Joe's arrival, Kurt, accompanied by two more men he didn't know, arrived at the Magic Box in a burst of brimstone smelling smoke. Fortunately, for everyone inside the Magic Box, they appeared outside.

Both were young men in peak physical condition. Rossi appeared to be nearing thirty while Pierson looked half a decade younger, no more then twenty-five. Pierson was thinner, with a longer face and nearly black hair; he was of a height with himself and Xander, maybe a hairsbreadth shorter, but he moved with the grace of a dancer. A very deadly dancer. For all his apparent youth his eyes were old, filled with a harsh cynicism, like an angry North Atlantic storm. Unforgiving.

Rossi was smaller, a little taller then Spike, but not by much. His frame packed more bulk. Solid muscle without an once wasted on fat. He was bursting with a nearly unbridled intensity; a fury that was just waiting for release, but somehow he maintained complete control.

The trio had been loaded down with several large sacks, all crammed full of books. Not just any old books either, but dark tomes that pulsated with malignant energy. They were definitely not the sort of books those uninitiated in the dark would peruse. It would take a strong will to remain unaffected reading such unholy blasphemy.

Pierson delved into them without a moment's hesitation. The man could read like a fiend and it didn't matter what language the book was written in. From Greek to Sumerian, Babylonian, Sanskrit, even a few that Giles couldn't identify. Pierson seemed innately familiar with them all.

Giles knew there was more to the man then his claim of being a simple watcher and linguist. Even the most skilled of linguist would have needed hours to translate the text into a language he was most familiar, most comfortable with. Pierson had simply read them as they were.

Upon his arrival, Kurt was bombarded by a dozen or more questions, which sprang out of almost as many mouths. The German born mutant did his best to answer the youngsters; until Scott dragged him away to get his opinion of Glory. "Immensely powerful, extremely vain, homicidal, psychotic, and not the least bit sane or rational and only has one goal in mind, getting home. Even if that means destroying everything in the process."

Then in a hushed voice that only several people close to him could hear Kurt said, "This is no place for children. Why did you bring them."

Scott had simply stared at Kurt with that unreadable stoicism, brown eyes hidden behind his ruby quartz visor. After an extended silence, a silence that ticked by with unbearable slowness, Scott finally said, "There was no choice." He had taken a breath. "It's their world. They deserve their say in its fate. Anything else belittles them, diminishes them. And this way, I know right where they are the entire time."

After that, the planning session swung into high gear; Scott, Logan, Duncan, Buffy, Rossi, Drake, Dawson, Giles, Xander, and Proudstar gathered around the shop's solitary table and hammered out strategy after strategy, planned for one contingency after another, separating the massive group into smaller teams. "Units," Scott had called them and Rossi nodded his approval.

"Bullets aren't going to do much good," Buffy said at one point. "Demons tend not to die when you shoot them. Some of them are vulnerable to silver. Holy or blessed weapons work, but the most effective way to kill most demons is a good old fashion beheading." Her voice was extremely smug as she explained.

Rossi smiled at her. He unholstered his sidearm and held it up, displaying the large handgun. "You might be surprised? A round from this will punch a hole the size of a man's fist through armor plating."

Xander's eyes had gone wide. "Is that a MAK II?"

"MAK II, that's a pea shooter compared to this," Rossi said sounding embarrassed to even be discussing it. "This here is the TGK, third generation." He popped the clip out, powered down the energy cell, made sure the chamber was clear and then passed the weapon to Xander, who held it with reverence. "Standard issue S.H.I.E.L.D. sidearm. This ain't your grandpa's nine mil, these here have a bit extra pop to them."

"There's nothing to it," Xander said looking the weapon over, admiring the design. "A twenty-two weighs more then this."

"Made from the latest in space age plastics… Doesn't jam, doesn't freeze, fire it under water, in a vacuum. Hell you could run the thing over with a tank and the damn thing would never miss a beat."

"What sort of recoil does it have?"

"None." His eyes stayed on Xander for a moment, studying him as he studied the gun. Buffy didn't like the look, but before she could say anything Rossi went on, "My men will secure whatever high ground is available. As you say," he said with a quick nod towards Buffy, "Bullets might not put them down for good, but after taking a couple of rounds, it might make them reconsider their position."

"It just might at that," Giles agreed. "Most demons will go to great lengths to avoid unnecessary pain."

Buffy nodded, "How do we know they can hit what they're aiming at?"

"Every Shield agent is field rated," Rossi answered. At Buffy's less then thrilled expression he added, "Each man can pit a prune at a thousand yards."

"And that means?" Buffy asked almost sounding belligerent.

"We hit what we're aiming at Miss Summers."

"I doubt if I'll be pitting many prunes no matter how close I am," Dawson said. He gave his lower leg a couple of solid thwacks with his cane. "But I don't think I'll be doing anybody any good in close quarter. And I can do a fair imitation of suppression fire."

"You know how to handle a gun old timer," Rossi asked.

"Did a tour in 'Nam," Dawson answered. His voice didn't hold as much bitterness as it once would have, but dregs of it were still there, at the edges.

The answer seemed to satisfy Rossi. "We're got spare weapons and equipment, communicators and what all, back in the van. If Wagner wouldn't mind giving me a lift?"

Giles had been helpful, providing bits of useful data but hadn't been overly intrusive. Logan's presence, more then anything, had kept his mouth closed. Giles was rather positive the feral little man would have leapt across the table and gutted him like a carp if he had broached the subject that weighed most heavily on his mind.

The execution of Dawn Summers.

No matter how well they planned, the skill and precision with which they executed their plans, how hard they fought, the possibility existed that the ritual, Dawn's bleeding, would begin no matter what. If that happened, the only way to save the world would be to stop the flow of Blood.

The only way to stop the blood would be to kill Dawn.

Buffy, he could have talked over. She would understand. She wouldn't place her sister above the world.

Logan though, the man was driven and the only thing that concerned him was the safety of his daughters. Everything else could go hang as far as he was concerned. Anybody that thought differently would find themselves having a rather pointed discussion, albeit a short one, with Logan, or rather those razor sharp claws embedded in his forearms.

Giles had kept his own council on the subject. If the ritual began, he would do what was necessary. In all likelihood he wouldn't survive Dawn by long.

The session had broken up shortly after that; their plans set, yet fluid, based more upon everyone's ability to adapt to the situation.

Faith was standing in the front doorway smoking a cigarette, Buffy had slipped out back, both Logan and Spike had disappeared. Xander and Anya had slipped into the basement to look for anything that might be useful. Xavier's students were gathered in little groups talking quietly amongst themselves. Pierson was still thoroughly engrossed with the text they had liberated from Doc. Duncan and Amanda were having a private conversation, as private as could be when there were any number of people with super hearing in the immediate vicinity.

As Giles replayed the events that had brought them to this point, trying to find something they could have done differently, a single song kept popping into. It wasn't a song from his youth, but something modern, from the mid nineties. Normally he didn't pay much attention to the newer music, he preferred gritty substance to stylized glitter.

But this album, soundtrack, struck him as being rather amusing. It was done by Jon Bon Jovi, front man to one of the biggest of the big hair bands, and was written for the second, "Young Guns" movie. Giles however thought the album would have been better suited for the first movie, that it was a better fit. As a result the album stuck with him.

The song "Santa Fe" mirrored what had happened to them. They had left, but fate had forced them back, leaving them no choice but to fight.

"What's this?" Robert da Costa's voice cut through the relative din. An angry yellow sphere fell into his palm. Casually he flipped it back up and caught it again. Its surface was rough, gritty like sandpaper. It gave off a gentle warmth.

"A Dagon Sphere," Giles answered absently.

"What's it do?" Roberto asked sounding intrigued.

Giles eyes seemed to gain a little focus as he recalled what he knew about the artifact. A sly smile bloomed over his lips. "It just might help us survive," He answered cryptically.


	21. Interlude

Interlude

Irene Adler stirred her herbal tea with lazy, languid movements. Being a precog, always knowing what was going to happen, even knowing what had the highest probability of happening, had its disadvantages.

Boredom being chief among them. A lack of spontaneity. A generalized sense of everything being preordain, an over inflated sense of acceptance, trying too hard or not attempting at all, to alter what appears to be immutable.

Then when an event occurred that hadn't been foreseen, the timing of which Marie developed her powers, being a prime example, it was reality's cold hard slap to the face. A reminder that life wasn't predictable. That in an infinite universe not only was everything possible, but everything was probable.

Only the degrees varied.

Irene wasn't old, at forty-two she had lived a little more then half her allotted life. She was tall and thin, most people would say she was porcelain fragile, but in truth the woman was far from breakable.

Her life had been full, even adventurous, traipsing the world over in pursuit of a cause she believed in. The most important cause. One she hoped and dreamed and prayed never came to pass.

When she was young, she had fallen in love with the most alluring, mysterious, dynamic person she has ever met. Raven was a true enigma, she could be anyone, but unless she had reason to be someone else she was always herself.

The night she conceived Raven's child was the last time she saw her love. If she had stayed with Raven and the Brotherhood, Eric would have been the death of them. Raven would have tried to stop him; fighting with half a heart, a heart that truly belonged to the cause, she would have lost.

With them the world would have been lost.

Irene found it somewhat amusing how events have a way of happening no matter what she changed. She had given Marie up for adoption, yet stayed close to her, living in the same neighborhood, even taking an active part in her life, working as the school's guidance counselor. She even managed to keep up with the girl on her cross-country trek north, not an easy task for a blind woman.

Throughout Marie's entire journey, Irene wanted more then anything to go to her rescue, confess everything to her estranged daughter. Two things stopped her more times then she cared to remember. A sense that if she did, doom would descend upon the world. Then there was Marie's indescribable anger towards her. Whether a true vision or her worst fears manifesting themselves in the form of a vision she didn't know.

Either way it stayed her hand.

In the end it was the right decision.

Marie had been saved. The world, while a step closer to the brink, had been pulled back from the darkness Eric had very nearly plunged it into.

A young, slip of a girl slid into the seat across from Irene. Her red hair was cut short, just below her ears, it shimmered under the restaurant's dim light. A heart shaped mouth and small button nose dominated a rather square face. Intelligence sparkled in her flat brown eyes.

Irene felt her heart tighten, constricting, pounding in her chest. She had never seen the girl before, had never seen any person before, but Irene would know Raven no matter what form she wore.

It had been seventeen years since she last saw her love. Irene hadn't expected the emotions to rush back, yet they swelled just like an ocean wave surging over the breakers. She wanted to say something, anything, but every time she opened her mouth, nothing was there.

"Make this quick Irene," Raven said. Her voice was ice, like she wanted to be any place but where she was sitting.

Irene flinched at the toneless quality of Raven's words. A little animosity she had expected, having to deal with her anger, Irene had anticipated those obstacles, but this emotionless person sitting in front of her was something she hadn't foreseen. "I've missed you," she finally said.

"Whose decision was that?" Raven demanded. This time the anger was there, a firestorm searing her frozen emotion.

It was more what Irene had expected. "There were reasons I had to leave."

"Reasons you couldn't say goodbye?"

"Does Eric know you're here?" Irene asked without bothering to answer. Knowing the future didn't mean she knew everything.

"Eric doesn't control my every action," Raven snapped with more vinegar then she meant.

Irene could hear the tension. Deception was Raven's art, lying her forte, but she had never been able to lie to her; not convincingly at any rate. "I've never loved anyone but you," she declared. It was true. She had never taken another person to her bed.

Raven's eyes lost a little of their hard edge, when she spoke emotions where thick in her voice. "Why then? Why leave? I know you didn't agree wholly with Eric, I could have sheltered you from him. We could have left, gone somewhere…"

The gentle shake of Irene's head brought Raven's spontaneous declaration to a halt. "You should never lie to yourself Raven. You no more could have left Eric's cause then I could have stayed."

"Why?" Raven asked again, her voice a whisper wrapped in steel.

Irene's mouth went dry. She swallowed reflexively. This was the moment she had been giving herself mind numbing, eye-popping migraines planning. Strategizing her every word. She knew what had to be said, and was almost one hundred percent certain Raven wouldn't kill her when she heard.

Almost was the Key word. There were a handful of possibilities where she didn't leave the restaurant alive.

She took a breath to steady herself, prepared herself to do the hardest thing she has ever had to do. "I left to protect our child."

"Child," Raven murmured the word, at a complete loss over what Irene meant. What she said was important, but Raven couldn't quite put her finger on it. Then, like heavy storm clouds that part, allowing the sun to illuminate the day, she suddenly understood. Her eyes, her entire face was a mask of startled wonder tinged with anger. "Child," she said again. Her voice brimmed with a whole host of emotion.

Raven remembered how amorous they had been those long years ago. They made love at every available opportunity, she'd wear a man's form as often as a woman's.

It wasn't new for her to make love to a woman as a man. In fact, for the last several months, ever since she began impersonating Senator Kelly, she had been making love to Kelly's wife Sharon, and doing a much better job of it then the Senator ever did.

The woman was decent, not a bigot like her husband. Their children didn't seem too bad, as far as humans go. She even found herself concerned about them, their problems. There was even the tiniest flicker of guilt that she was, in part, responsible for taking their father away from them. It was different when he had been nothing more then a mission objective, now there were faces. If it weren't for the changes she could effect as Kelly, she would have gotten out of it as soon as possible.

Despite Raven's age, Irene was the only person she has ever loved. While Irene was a beautiful woman, as radiant today as when she was a brash teenager, it wasn't the packaging Raven had fallen in love with. Beauty was secondary to her, of far more importance was the person.

Contrary to popular opinion she had never been romantically involved with Eric. She had known Eric a long time, almost fifty years, and she had never seen him as anything other then a comrade in arms. A guiding force to light the darkness. She admired him, believed in his cause, was one of his chief advisors.

Nothing at all like the on again, off again affair she and Creed kept up during the late fifties, an affair that resulted in the birth of her oldest son Graydon Creed. A more despicable man she could never imagine meeting, much less providing half the DNA to create.

"Child," Raven said again. She had given birth to two sons, Graydon and Kurt; but she had never before fathered a child. And Irene had kept her from… Was it a boy? A girl? "How?"

Irene didn't need Raven to be anymore specific. She had always been extremely good at knowing what Raven meant, what she was thinking. "If I had stayed Eric—"

"How could you not tell me?" Raven hissed.

"You would have sided with Eric," Irene answered evenly. "Being a precog does have its advantages Raven. You won't go against Eric. Never have, never will." Raven was silent, she could argue, but Irene was right. "I will do whatever is necessary to make sure Marie is protected, even leaving her with those I disagree with."

"You had a girl," Raven said softly. "What is she like?"

Irene took a breath and exhaled. "You've already met her. Twice I believe."

Raven frowned as she thought back. She had met this girl, Marie, twice before. A sixteen, almost seventeen year old girl that Eric was interested in. Her eyes widened as she whispered, "Rogue."

The shock, the irritation in Raven's voice was crystalline to Irene's ears. "I see she made an impression on you." Raven stood up abruptly, her chair legs scraped against the floor. "Where are you going?" Irene demanded as she started out of her chair.

Raven stopped. Her posture was ramrod straight, stiff as any piece of lumber. "She chose her—"

"This isn't about sides," Irene snapped at her. "Your side, her side, Eric's side, Xavier's side. Your daughter is in trouble."

"She's better off where she is," Raven said.

Irene shook her head. Her sightless glare burned between Raven's shoulders. The young looking woman could feel it itch. "You can help her."

"I tried to kill her," Raven hissed.

Irene exhaled slowly. She pushed herself all the way up, she was a good four inches taller then Raven. "Did you truly believe I didn't already know that?"

Raven turned around to face her one time lover. She watched Irene trying to sense if there was any deception. It was almost impossible to read the face of the blind.

"I know she's in danger," Irene said into the prolonged stretch of silence. "Worse then anything she has ever faced before, and I can't see what it is. Can't see if she is going to be all right? If she lives, if she dies? It's all so chaotic right now, a swirling mass of confusion, like each and every possibility has an equal chance."

Raven's eyes narrowed. Irene had explained her powers before, how each possible course of action had probable outcomes and she could see which had the greatest chance of occurring. "Why did you come to me?"

"Because you can help her," Irene insisted.

"Is that a vision?"

"No," she admitted.

"You shouldn't have contacted me Irene," Raven said. A cold bitterness laced her voice. "Rogue despises me—"

"She doesn't know you," Irene snapped at her.

"Which is for the best," Raven spit back. She wasn't the type of person to raise a child, she had abandoned two of her own already. She wasn't a role model, somebody to be looked up to, admired. There was blood on her hands, lots of it, and there would soon be more. "She's developed quite a bond with Wolverine," she informed Irene with a vicious sneer. Her words were harsher then they had to be. Still it needed to be done. "Maybe you should have gone to him for help?"

"His brood stands at the heart of it," Irene said as Raven turned her back on her and took a step. Irene hated what she was about to do.

It betrayed a trust, but Raven had left her with no other option. "Kurt is with her."

There was only the slightest of pauses before Raven took a second step. Then a third. She had said goodbye to Kurt the night she had left him with the strange German Count who helped birth him, Wagner. It was far easier to walk out a second time after more then thirty years between the two events.

A third time wasn't very hard at all.

* * *

Gentle, morning sunlight, filtered through the window. It washed a small part of the somberly furnished room with its warmth. The sky outside was bright and clear of the massive storm that had pummeled New York city for the better part of sixteen hours, knocking out lights, phones, even disrupting satellite communications. There was very little evidence that any storm had raged over the city in Piotr's immediate vicinity, only puddles on the slabs of concrete. Puddles that were quickly drying under the early morning sun.

"Incredible," Piotr breathed out as he starred out at New York City's dazzling landscape as dawn broke over the horizon. To a boy that had grown up in the small farming community of Ust-Ordynski, with its endless seas of grain in the summer and the stark whiteness of winter, New York City, with its massive skyscrapers, dark and gleaming, shimmering under a blistering sun, was like something out of a fantasy writer's imagination.

Piotr could picture it in his mind's eye, what it would look like on canvass. He had attempted a several dozen paintings since coming to America and Xavier's school nineteen months ago, but few turned out how he envisioned them.

Letting the curtain fall back into place he turned back towards the center of the room, where the Professor and Ororo were talking quietly, not privately, among themselves. If he focused on them, he could easily listen to their dialogue. He, however, didn't believe in eavesdropping.

Not on the Professor anyway. Or Ms. Monroe.

"You're sure it wasn't a natural storm?" Charles inquired diplomatically. He should know better then to question Ororo when it came to the weather.

The look she gave him, the "I can't believe you actually asked me that" expression, would have caused a charging rhino to falter a step or two. "I spent three hours trying to lesson the ferocity of that monster. Would have had better luck stopping a forest fire by tossing napalm on it. The storm didn't slacken at all, not until it stopped, as abruptly as it began yesterday. It wasn't a natural storm."

Xavier stapled his fingers as he speculated on the meaning of Ororo's last words. _What type of storm could it be_?

Yesterday afternoon they had arrived at New York's, Russian embassy and awaited the arrival of Piotr's baby sister Illyana. The Storm, as many in the city had taken to calling it, had literally blown up out of nowhere. There hadn't been the slightest warning, as if it had been conjured out of thin air, and hit the city with the force of a category five hurricane.

Mayor Giuliani had no choice but to declare a state of emergency, shutting the state down, diverting incoming flights, Illyana's among them, to other airports. Trains were all re-routed and the subways were shuttled back to their yards or shut down where they were, or moved to a place of safety, relative safety as it were. A storm of that magnitude, that suddenly appeared out of nowhere, there was no place of safety. The highways had been closed to everything but emergency vehicles, which necessitated them spending the night at the embassy.

Fortunately, there had more then enough room for them. Their accommodations were generous, to say the least, providing each of them with their own room. Suites fit for royalty.

"Any ideas?" Charles asked maneuvering his chair around to include Piotr in their conversation. Last night had been particularly frustrating to him. A psychic static blanketed the city, and there was still a residue this morning, but still…

Using his telepathy the way he did, to keep track of his vicinity. Losing that felt like losing two of his major senses, hearing and sight. Having his telepathy back, limited as it was, was like a blind man whose suddenly been granted the gift of sight.

Piotr wanted to be involved, but didn't want to appear forward. Age would bring him confidence, a sense that he belonged, that his thoughts mattered, his opinions were important. It would come, it would just take a little time.

Ororo frowned at the question. "I didn't sense an intelligence controlling the storm."

"Magic?" Piotr suggested. It wasn't a word he would have used two weeks ago, but since Logan's children, Buffy and Dawn, had entered their universe, expanding what they believed was inevitable. It seemed magic wasn't only possible, but if the practitioner was particularly skilled or powerful, goals were easily attainable using it.

"I hadn't given that possibility any thought," Xavier said with wonder.

"Nor I," Ororo agreed. The thought of there being a mutant with greater control over the weather then her own had been disturbing enough. That somebody could accomplish the same through such an unnatural manipulation chilled her. A most unpleasant experience, one she never felt before since her powers naturally insulate her from extreme temperatures.

"Buffy's friend," Piotr began. Again, his sharp bass sounded diffident. "Willow, she might know if such a thing could be done?"

Xavier nodded slowly. "It would be best if we curtailed this discussion for the moment. When we have a bit of time to spare, I'm sure Rupert will be more then accommodating on the subject." _An attaché to the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff is approaching_. Xavier's brows narrowed in concentration. _He seems distressed for some reason. I'll be glad once this residue clears completely_.

Ororo schooled her features to stillness, a simple enough task with the years she's spent keeping a tight reign on her emotions. Piotr tried to follow her example, but his face was too honest, his concern and disquiet had been etched into his features long ago, as if chiseled there by a master craftsman.

The attaché was a small, neatly trimmed, dark eyed, light haired, softly spoken man with an unperturbed air of professionalism about him. On the surface at any rate. Underneath was a different matter entirely. He was roiling with uncertainty and doubts. His name was Yuri Gonovich, and he deposited them in the office of the Senior Secretary. He made polite small talk about facts they were already well aware of as he led them to their destination. The plane Illyana was traveling on had been diverted, and the drive had taken longer then they had expected.

Charles had begun to suspect that the Russian Embassy was protected by some sort of psychic dampening field. Even within arm reach of the attaché he wasn't able to get more then surface thoughts. _That type of technology's unheard of in the United States_. Questions surfaced with the realization.

The Senior Secretary, Nikoli Urstov, was a large, robust man. He sat behind a large, ash pale desk that his bulk made look small. Xavier figured it must have taken four strong men to haul the monster into the office. Urstov looked capable of breaking it in twain with half an effort. Xavier was rarely intimidated by a person's physical appearance, but he suspected Urstov was used to having his extraordinary mass cow most people before he ever opened his mouth. His physic was more in line with an Olympic power lifter then the life long bureaucrat he was.

Urstov stood, the plush, double sized leather chair groaned with grateful relief now that it didn't have to support its owners excessive girth. He extended his ham-sized hand. "It is a very great honor to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure," Xavier began as his hand disappeared within Urstov's meaty grip, "I'm sure, is all mine."

Urstov shrugged at the sentiment. "After you hear what I have to say, you may not feel the same?" He hedged softly. He turned large sad eyes on Peter. "It is my most unfortunate duty Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin, to inform you that the small farming community you grew up in, the Ust-Ordynski Collective—"

"My family," Peter cut in harshly. "What has happened to my Family?"

Ororo stepped forward, placed a soothing hand on both his forearm and shoulder hoping to restrain the normally gentle Russian. "Piotr…"

"Piotr," Xavier said.

Urstov waved off the interruption as he said, "Its quite all right Professor Xavier. There really is not much else to say. The military went into the village because there had been no contact for close to a week, not too unusual for a Siberian winter in the old days. Before cell phones and DSL internet connections."

A sideways glance at Piotr suggested it would perhaps be in his best interest to tell them what he knew without long elaborations.

"They swept through the village, scoured it top to bottom without finding a single soul. A base camp was established south of the Ust-Ordynski Collective, and the village was thoroughly searched several times a day for the better part of a week. They didn't find anything out of the ordinary, unless you count the fact they didn't find anyone."

"There was something though?" Xavier said.

Urstov looked hard at Xavier. If the rumors about the man were true… If the rumors about the man were true, then fencing with him could be dangerous. He had been playing the game a long time, too long to change at the drop of a hat. "It might be something? More then likely it is nothing. A single word, Belasco, carved into a wooden door frame."

"What does any of this have to do with my family?" Piotr demanded.

"Maybe nothing? Maybe everything? It is what was found, almost the only thing that was found."

"Almost?" Charles prompted.

Urstov nodded as he lifted the heavy glass filled with vodka. "Almost," he agreed just before taking a deep sip of the alcohol, felt the soothing liquid burn down his throat. He lowered the glass, staring hard into clear alcohol. "It was the last day when she was found. From the reports it was more like she found them, simply walked into camp as it was being broke down."

"Illyana?" Piotr whispered.

"Illyana," Urstov agreed before taking a second sip from his glass. "Illyana Nikolaevna Rasputin. That is the name she gave us, though she didn't match your sister's vital statistics."

"If the girl you found isn't Piotr's sister, Illyana—"

"Quite the contrary Professor. We are more then confident that the young girl in question is in fact Illyana. What we are hoping is that you, Professor Xavier, can help us find out what happened to everyone else that lived in the Ust-Ordynski Collective."

"I'm not quite sure I follow what you mean?" Xavier said with quiet deliberation.

Urstov smiled, much like a predator, and it never touched his eyes. "Please Professor Xavier? We shouldn't, how do you Americans say, beat around the bush with each other. We're well aware of your recent visit to your American President. The nature is still a mystery, that you could manage it during the height of such a crisis speaks of the great influence you wield."

Xavier kept his face smooth. "If we're not going to beat around the bush, then why don't you tell me exactly what you want me to do?"

"I like you, if I may be so forward," Urstov declared spontaneously. He tapped his temple and said, "You have a very shrewd mind." He polished off the remainder of his vodka and slapped the glass onto his desk. "Very well, my government would like you to read the girl's mind and discern what happened, where she was, who took her, and how she was returned."

"Why don't you simply ask her?" Ororo inquired.

"We did," Urstov replied. "She didn't know, or so she claimed. The few, low level telepaths that interviewed her couldn't read her mind. Apparently she has developed, what I'm told are quite formidable psionic shields. But again, those were only low level, not near your caliber at all."

"My caliber," Xavier repeated softly. He looked thoughtful as he said, "Why don't you show the young girl in and we'll see what we see?"

Urstov grunted, a sour sound from a man so large. He reached across his desk, pressed a button on his phone. "Anna, have Illyana escorted in please." He released the button and turned back to Xavier and his people.

Deafening silence descended upon the room. Piotr wasn't happy. He knew Urstov was using a polite euphemism when he said Illyana had been interviewed. Interrogated was what he meant. If there was more proof then his own gut to go on he would break Urstov in half. The man's girth wasn't the slightest deterrent to him.

It was only a few minutes before the left door creaked open. A young girl popped her head through the small opening. Her face was perfection, a picture of childish innocence, as if god had crafted it simply to show everyone what it looked like. Her eyes were a soft blue, like fine crystal and her hair was spun gold kissed by the sun.

Her gaze darted frantically around the room until they fell on Piotr. Her face lit up with wide eyes, it was like the sun had finally come out from behind heavy storm clouds. "Piotr!" She cried out. With a surge of desperate speed she crossed the room in a literally blink of an eye and wrapped herself around the startled Russian. "I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

"What is this?" Piotr demanded of Urstov. His voice was confusion that bordered on outrage. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pried her off him. "Who is this? Where is my sister? What have you done with Illyana?"

"Piotr…"

Her soft tear strained voice pulled at the young X-Man. It tugged him out of his anger and forced him to look down at the young girl. Her face was so familiar to him, but it wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. Illyana was a child. His little snowflake. When he left to study at Xavier's, Illyana had been four, she should be six now not a teenager on the cusp of adulthood.

"…It's me. Illyana."

* * *

The Small explosion filled the room with a loud, static like pop as the target, a life size mannequin dressed as a pompous aristocrat, a middling lord of some importance, mostly in their own head, disintegrated as the beam struck. Smoke from vaporized atoms billowed out and fragmented shards of fused plastic began to rain down from above.

Jack, it was his only name, the only one they ever called him back in the day. Back in the shop, when the deadpool had been a fun way to will away the day for all the rejects, the failed experiments of the Weapon X project.

He had been sick once, he could remember that. A candle that burned in the fog. He still was, in a sense. Cancer had been eating away at him. They said they could cure him, kill the cancer. It was a second candle in the fog. Just beyond the first.

What starving man wouldn't reach for that plate, piled high with roast and ham and steak and potatoes and beets and beans and yams with a cherry cheese cake sitting right next to it. Did it even matter if you knew it was nothing more then sand and mud.

Chance. Hope. Salvation.

They could do things to a man who didn't know them; things he wouldn't normally do.

They had done things to him.

He didn't know what. It was all lost in the fog. It hurt to think about it—acid slowly burning away his arm sort of pain—so he didn't.

Afterwards he could remember. The shop and their twisted games. He could remember them; he didn't like to; wished he couldn't, but he could. Neon memories that played on the back of his eyelids whenever they were closed. A grotesque double feature. He had cut them off before—close down the Drive-In, temporarily as it were— only they always grew back.

He was dressed as he always was, in his blood red, form fitting body suit, there were dark blue patches around his eyes, heavy shoulders, and a strip running from under each arm, past his waist, and down each thigh before tapering to an end: The hilt of a katana jutted above each shoulder, a heavy bladed dagger was strapped to his calf. A pair of mini Uzis were securely nestled in the small of his back. His belt and bandoliers held a vast and varied assortment of weapons and other paraphernalia. So much that he often forgot exactly what he was carrying and where it was. Most times he carried a little cheat sheet, but he often misplaced it.

Jack twirled the highly experimental gun lazily before tossing it back to Weasel. In the background 616 The All Merc channel was a dull drone as it reported on the latest news from all over the world. It was, All Merc—All Day, and it definitely wasn't available to the ordinary cable subscribers.

"I like it," Jack gushed. "I want it. How many can you build for me…" he turned picking up the remote and increasing the volume on the television, "…in say, the next five minutes?"

"Wade…" That was what everyone called him. It was as good a name as any other he could think of.

"…The slayer and her intrepid band of cohorts, have been unavailable for comments. Like any sensible being, they have chosen discretion over valor, and attempted to flee, making haste to parts unknown…"

"…you're killing me here."

"Not now," he said. His attention was drawn towards the special bulletin update. "Maybe later. After you build me three or four of those little bad boys."

"Threatening to kill your arms supplier is not the best way to endear yourself, or ensure you get the best quality product—"

"And since when do you produce a quality product?" Jack asked innocently as he moved closer to the television.

"…Where both sides have been gearing up for the climatic conclusion to their confrontation." Behind him was a picturesque little community, a town that couldn't possibly know any sort of trouble. "Glory, the supposedly deposed Hellgod, though it would be wise not to put it in quite those terms in her presence, as my predecessor found out to his detriment, has been scouring the globe in her attempt to find reliable allies. To this end she has entered a tentative agreement with Victor Von Doom, the despot dictator of Latveria, the details of which have yet to be disclosed.

"To date dozens have flocked to her banner, a very disruptive element, the scourge, the scum of society. According to unconfirmed reports she has managed to recruit not one, but two Mohra's from differing clans. From what this reporter has been able to uncover it is only because of Glory's unbridled power that the two haven't engaged in ritual combat which would leave one of them dead and the other in a hibernation coma for three days as it absorbs the essence of its enemy.

"Glory's original followers." His face scrunched up as he stared at something off screen. With a swift motion he covered the head of his microphone with his left hand, the 616 MM logo was still visible. In a low voice, that was still picked up by the microphone, he demanded, "What the hell is that?" There was a slight pause, obviously someone was answering him. Giving him an answer he didn't like if his response of, "Cut my damn balls off and shove them down my throat," was anything to got by.

"Fuck me, its thirty fucking seven letters long. Consonants, all fucking consonants. There's no fucking way I can fucking pronounce that fucking—" He stopped with a quizzical look, as if he couldn't believe what somebody said. "Fuck them. What the hell's the FCC going to do? Shut us the fuck down? Hello, were an illegal broadcast, not like we give a fuck about federal standards. Now give me something I can work with and shut the fuck up or during the next commercial break I'll find a real stick to shove up that tightwad ass of yours."

"Like the new guy," Jack commented lazily from where he leaned against the wall. "Whatever happened to Sturge?"

"You didn't here?"

"Wouldn't be asking if I had."

"Brain sucked." At Jack's questioning, "Huh." Weasel explained, " Yeah. Called Glory, a supposedly deposed Hellgod, while she was granting him an interview. You know how these megalomaniac types are…" At Jack's non-committal grunt he continued. "She blew into a fit of rage. Stuck her fingers right into his skull, no blood. It was like they simply merged together. It only took seconds, but it felt like days had passed. When it was all over with Sturge was sitting on the floor a simpering idiot with drool hanging out the corner of his mouth. Definitely not family entertainment."

Jack had tuned him out by the end his attention focused back on the live broadcast.

"…Recent weeks her Scabberous minions, Glory's faithful followers from the very beginning, have had their most sacred position as Glory's right hand usurped by the arrival of the psychotic sociopath, Victor Creed—"

"What?" Jack whispered in stunned disbelief. Under the red mask, his expression became one of outraged shock. "She hired a lunatic like Sabretooth? What the… The man is completely unprofessional. I mean sure if body count is all you're going for, he's your man. First he'll kill all your enemies, then he'll kill all your friends, then he'll kill you, Then he'll kill everyone else."

"Um, Wade—"

"I mean sure, I kill people, when I'm paid to kill them. Or when I'm on a job and they get in my way. If I think they're gonna give me a problem, or I have a score to settle. If they look at me the wrong way… or at all. If I disagree with your politics—"

"Boss—"

"I'm not going to put up with this, this… Legitimate Mercs out there looking for work and she goes out and hires Creed. Hell, wouldn't even be surprised if he's already gone off on his own little tangent… And the slayer, what's a slayer anyway? Anybody?"

"Mystical warrior. Kills vampires and other demons."

"Does she check for ID?"

"Apparently the X-Men have taken an interest in her cause."

"The X-Men?" He scoffed. "They're not Mercs. They're idealist. What the… I'm here, I'm available. My prices are reasonable, my morals are flexible. If nobody wants my services… Fine, I'll just have to give everybody a free sample of what their missing. Quickly men, to the transporter."

"We don't have a transporter Boss."

The movement was so fast that nobody saw Jack's arm whip back and forth. The unnamed henchman's face went blank, a red dot blossomed on his forehead. A second passed before the man collapsed upon himself.

"Anybody else? Questions? Comments?"


	22. Chap 11: The Famous Final Scene Part 1

Chapter Eleven: One Child/The Famous Final Scene—Part One

Darkness lay heavy in the master bedroom of the Summers' home. The curtains were open wide and the lights burned bright. To Nick Wolfe, it might as well be burlap binding his eyes tight. They were wide open, but the world beyond was black. It didn't matter; Nick knew the layout of the room as if it were painted in neon.

It was Joyce Summers' room, had been her room since she first moved to Sunnydale in the early days of ninety-seven, when she had been naive and believed getting out of Los Angeles would be enough to save Buffy; her eldest daughter…her only daughter. It was as if two different versions of the truth had collided and meshed together haphazardly. More then a year passed before she learnt the truth about Buffy. Mystical Warrior; chosen, destined, called from on high, for a sacred duty.

Joyce died a few weeks ago; a brain tumor, but that wasn't what killed. The surgery had been a success, but an aneurysm developed, undetected it spelled the end of her days. A few more days to cherish those she held dearest of all.

It was a blessing few people have.

The woman's presence still filled the room, it poured from each nook and cranny, from every fiber. This house, this room had seen much pain and suffering in the course of just a few years. Too many tears had been shed into the pillow his head now rested on. The gods themselves had been cursed and spit at from this very room.

They were wicked, petty, vindictive creatures. There was no telling who they listened to or why. They would lash out or raise up on a whim, and no telling which was which until it was all said and done; quite often not even then.

Nick didn't know how he knew any of that. He had never meant Joyce, or Buffy, or any of them, but he knew. Just like he knew his social security and driver license numbers off the top of his head, could recite them backward if need be. It's like how he knew his father's favorite baseball team was the Dodgers and his mother despised daytime talk shows.

It was all just there, like the image of Joyce's face, the unconditional love she had for her daughters, how she hated that she would likely outlive Buffy because her daughter had been chosen as the slayer, and what gave a bunch of senile old men in England the right to force that obligation on her daughter, on any girl; but mostly her daughter.

Joyce's overwhelming love for her daughters was stifling. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Images swam in his head; vile, beautiful, breathtaking, disgusting, majestic images; some so alien, others brutally human. At times it was impossible to tell them apart.

He could feel things; dark, putrid things squirming around inside his brain.

For a moment the world, the entire universe was wrong, distorted, darkly disturbing in how right everything was.

Nick bent over double, collapsing to the floor as he clasped his hands behind his head. He lay there in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, silently wishing for everything to make sense once more.

Between one instant and the next it did. It all swung back to something almost normal, but wasn't. It quivered between the two, like moldy jello.

Slowly pushing himself to a sitting position, his back resting against the side of the bed, his knees pulled to his chest, Nick let his head hang back as he tried to take in the room. He opened himself up, not really sure how he did it, just that he did. It was like breathing, except easier and harder at the same time.

In the three weeks since her death nobody had taken over the room, though both Spike and Logan had used it to recuperate from traumatic injuries suffered at Glory's hands. Injuries that would have killed ordinary men.

The information simply seemed to be there and all he had to do was stretch his hand out and pluck it from the ether. So much information. Too much, without any rhyme or reason for what was there, or what wasn't.

Something, in the darkness was calling to him. An urge, a tick in the back of his skull. He would gouge it out but it was dug in deep.

It was a call.

Dark and insistent.

Nick got up, crossed the room, unlocked and opened the door with an economy of motion. Not once did he come close to bumping into anything. As an after thought he reached out and turned off the lights. He would have fought it, but the need to go was so strong, too strong. The strongest desire he had ever felt.

This was something he needed to do. It was an event he needed to witness. Something Glorious. Something that cusped the edge of Divinity. He wanted to rush, but knew he had all the time in the world. This last, famous final scene wouldn't play out before it was due.

And it would come due until he set it motion.

**-----------------------------------------------------------**

Anya leaned around the corner slightly, glancing up the stairwell making sure no one had gotten overly curious about what was taking them so long to search the basement. It wasn't like anybody expected them to find a magical what's-a-ma-call-it that would actually make a difference in the up coming fight.

Still, Xander had insisted she check. Some times he was such a girl when it came to sex. Any other guy would be all obnoxiously nonchalant around his friends about the fact he had just brought her to a complete body curling orgasm; every aspect of her being had expanded and compressed at the same time—it was the ultimate stress reliever. That wasn't Xander, he'd go all red and flustered and shush her every time she informed his friends just how skilled and talented he was, how many orgasms his fingers and tongue and penis could bring her to in a marathon length night of sex. Or how he was willing to experiment, role play, and dress up. None of them would believe how absolutely scrumptious he looked in a red chemise with matching heels; of course he made her take a blood vow never to speak of it—to anyone—ever—before he let her dress him up.

Buttoning the last few buttons of her blouse Anya turned back to face Xander as she tucked satin cloth into the waist of her skirt. "Nobody there," she informed him as she zipped her skirt up.

Xander wasn't sure but he thought he could detect a note of disappointment in her voice. It didn't really surprise him; Anya had a voyeuristic streak a mile long and it was normally everything he could do to keep her from acting upon. This was the closest he had ever come to giving in; the fact that near to two dozen people were within shouting distance and could have come done stairs at any instant wasn't lost on him. A bit of song lyric drifted through his head from high school; back when he contemplated his chances of becoming a bad ass rock guitarist, without ever actually learning how to play a guitar. He couldn't remember the band, didn't even remember what it sounded like but the words… its different now, just a whim. Maybe I'm becoming his pet… just replace his for her and it was sort of how he felt at times. _Maybe I'm starting to like it_? The vague image of a rather scary looking clown grinning evilly at him—_like there was any other kind_—went with the bit of song.

He did up the snap on his pants, "I thought for sure somebody was gonna come down and offer to give us a hand," he said in a loud mumble as he pulled his zipper up and clasped the buckle on his belt cinching the leather strap tight around his waist. A slight frown crept across his lips when it didn't slid into its customary notch. With all the sex Anya and him had, he figured the pounds should be falling off. Everybody claimed sex was the best form of exercise out there and with as much as the two of them had, night after night, and sometimes like today, earlier in the morning, he should be fit enough to run a marathon, or star in some fast pace, shoot 'em up, action thriller. Grabbing his t-shirt he added, "Wouldn't have been awkward much."

"The right person," Anya said sauntering over to him. A saucy smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes as her right hand snaked behind his head, fingers digging into the meaty part of his neck, almost painfully so. "Would have been rather interesting." She pulled his head to hers for a lingering kiss.

_And this is how I get into so much trouble_. Despite the thought floating around Xander returned the kiss with equal passion, but was a little surprised when Anya pulled back after only a few seconds. He sighed silently, a disappointed little sound. "Probably be too much of a risk to start something now," he said running his fingers through her silken hair, "I mean we're lucky we got away without anybody knowing what we did." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead with quiet tenderness.

"Xander," Anya began softly, content in the moment; it was almost as blissful as the orgasms she experienced only minutes earlier. Perhaps it was a combination of the two events coming so close together. She didn't know. "You do realize at least four people know exactly what we did?" She felt Xander stiffen—and not in the good way that she enjoyed so much—and wondered what upset him.

"There's no way… We were quiet. I mean really, really quiet," Xander said. Even he could tell that it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Anya said a lot of wild things, but most of the time when she did speak she was right on about what she said.

"A vampire, two slayers, and I'm fairly certain that Logan's enhanced senses, if not several degrees better are at least the equivalent of Buffy, Faith, and Spike's. Plus there's also that Scot's girl who turns into a wolf; her senses might be advance in human form as well."

"Buffy doesn't have super senses," he countered. He didn't really care about Spike or Logan… or even Faith knowing about his and Anya's pre-apocalyptic liaison, but for some reason the thought of Buffy or Willow knowing just made him feel like a five year old who was caught in the neighbors house stealing cookies out of their brown bear shaped cookie jar wearing nothing but his underwear. Not a particularly pleasant feeling. "Sure, she's a slayer—"

"And a vampire slayer senses are nearly the equivalent of the demons they most commonly hunt. Its really quite amazing how similar the two are." She paused seeing the thoughtful frown creasing Xander's face. "Don't tell me you didn't—"

"Never had a clue," Xander said as he sat down on an unopened packing crate. His eyes gazed off into the distance as he folded his hands; he leaned forward a little and almost seemed to be chewing on his right index finger. "How couldn't I have seen it."

Anya sighed lightly, she really didn't like the fact that Xander had been talking to Rossi so much; or more accurately Rossi had been taking Xander aside; talking to him in hushed tones. She had caught several terms she didn't like hearing associated with Xander. "She never let you," Anya finally answered with a shrug. "Think about it, people already think you're a freak…"

"I never—"

"…Would you want them thinking you're a bigger freak? If you guys didn't already know I was a vengeance demon do you think I would just come out and tell you. Do you think I'll ever tell anyone else, even my parents?"

"Parents?" Xander questioned with a great deal of puzzlement. "Shouldn't your parents be dead a thousand years?"

"My real parents," Anya nodded. "But when I created this identity I had to chose a mother and father, school records," she added with a dismissive shrug, "and there was this family who just lost their daughter. All they wanted was their daughter back, even if it was only for a day."

Anya looked down, almost guiltily; ashamed of what she had done. Without hesitation Xander reached out and cupped Anya's cheek with his left hand. "You are the most amazing, beautiful… generous person I have ever known." Standing he captured her lips with his own, tried to convey everything he felt for her with one searing kiss. After a moment he broke the kiss, pulling back, gasping for breath. He turned slightly snatched his jacket from where it had been carelessly deposited earlier, and fumbled in a pocket.

Anya smiled, a blissful content little grin. "That was almost as relaxing…"

Xander heard Anya, even though he would never be able to tell anybody what she had said. His hand wrapped around a small black box. It had been there for several months now; long before any of them, except for Buffy, knew about Dawn or what Glory was after. He had bought it less then a week after Riley skipped town for parts unknown.

A week after Buffy and him had their standard blowup with each other, this one relatively mild compared to most of the others. He had said his piece, and like the uber-bitch Buffy could be when somebody pointed out something she didn't want to acknowledge, she had thrown a few of his own words back in his face.

At the time he had been too angry to give the retort much credence, but as the days dragged by it nagged at him. Sure his and Anya's relationship may have started off as a sort of friends with benefits kind of thing, or as Anya preferred to term them, orgasm buddies.

But after more then a year and a half, their relationship had to have moved beyond that. He was holding down a steady job, she was working at the Magic Box; she practically ran the store… and Giles with it. They were sharing an apartment, sharing each others lives.

They had moved beyond it and this was the perfect time to ask, to show her just how much he cared about her.

"Anya," he said turning back around. Something in his voice she had never heard before, a serious quality that was completely foreign to Xander, brought Anya to a stop. "I've never been good at ceremonies or rituals, always forget something important; but if I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right." He was speaking to her, she knew it, but it sounded as if he were talking to himself.

Unexpectedly he dropped to a knee; so quickly it startled her. "Anya," he began again extending his right hand, palm up; black velvet covered box resting atop it. With practiced ease he flipped the lid open revealing a small ring, with a brilliant diamond sitting snug atop the thin band of metal, it sparkled under the harsh glare of the basement's fluorescent lights. "Would you do me the honor and marry me; become my wife?"

He gazed upon the most magnificent sight he could imagine. Anya's face, shined so the diamond paled in comparison. In her eyes exquisite joy flashed, he's never quite felt this giddy knowing what her answer is going to be.

His ears ring and it's a wonder he didn't topple over with the force of her full arm slap. As it was, he could still feel the fillings in his teeth rattle. _Didn't see that coming_. "Can I take that as a, maybe?"

"You're proposing to me?"

_You are in so much trouble_. His little voice mocked him gleefully and Xander knew it was right. The light in her eyes had darkened significantly, and her smile had transformed into a scowl. "Yes," he answered carefully as he stood back up.

"You're proposing to me because we're gonna die, and you think it's romantic and sexy and…" A sudden dark thought seemed coalesce in her mind, her brow furrowed even more. "And you know you're not gonna have to go through with it 'cause the world's gonna end!"

Xander put his hands on Anya's shoulders, stared into her dark eyes. "I'm proposing to you, Anya, because I love you and if, god forbid, the worst should happen to me, to the world… I want you to know exactly how I feel about you. I don't ever want there to be a single doubt about what you mean to me, about how much I love you."

Anya stared at him. It looked like her Xander. Sounded like him too. He sure didn't talk like him though. This Xander was eloquent. She smiled, almost shyly. "Yes," she said not realizing she had spoken until the word left her mouth.

"Yes," Xander repeating, not sure he heard her right. It was the word he had been hoping for and dreading in equal amounts. The churning in his stomach, instead of vanishing like he hoped had simply gone deeper.

"Yes," Anya repeated, and Xander realized his life had just gotten even more complicated.

---------------------------------------------------------

The vampire exploded into a cloud of dust that slowly cascaded to the pavement below. Buffy's cold gaze stared ahead, indifferent. She didn't know why but she always thought there should be something… She didn't know what, just something different? Something more, something else. Something better. A sense of greater accomplishment.

She had stopped evil.

Lives had been saved.

Where was her parade, her balloons telling her she had done good.

A soft, measured clap echoed around the alley.

Her senses charged, her body tensed, blood flowed faster. Attacks, counterattacks, strategies blazed a dazzling trail through her brain. Even as the word, "Least…" floated to her ears she knew who was clapping. It was the same reaction she always had to Spike. Even the first time their paths crossed, in the alley behind the Bronze, before he calmly informed her he was going to kill her.

An easy, relaxed smile flitted across her lips, betraying the relief she felt that it was Spike and not any of her friends that was intruding on her alone time. Happy that she wouldn't have to put up the brave front or slip on her happy face.

Spike knew the real score.

She couldn't help fell a little strange, uncomfortable even, that Spike was the one person she was able to be herself around. They had spent too many years trying their best to kill each other to be anything else. All her friends expected her to be super Buffy. Dawn needed her to be Mom, not that she ever could, and Logan….

Logan was a complete mystery to her. He was her father, and because of the monk's spell Dawn's dad as well, but she didn't know what he expected her to be and that was more infuriating then the rest put together. At least with everybody else she knew what part to play. Him and the rest of his cohorts; Scott, Kurt, and all the… X-Babies— she just couldn't bring herself to call them X-Men, most weren't any older then Dawn.

Yet she would use them; send them off one by one to be cut down by Glory if that was what it took to keep Dawn safe.

Suddenly she felt old, dirty. Something maggots would feast on. As if she spent a week bathing in a pig slop scented to smell like roses. She imagined it must be what Travers feels like.

If Travers could feel.

"…We know everything I've taught you hasn't gone to rot with your hiatus Slayer."

Unbidden, the smile returned. Buffy quickly forced it from her face, replacing it with her deep scowl. It was so easy, so very, very easy to be herself around Spike. It felt natural, despite – or maybe because of – the years of animosity between them. At times she felt like Spike was the only person that understood her.

A gentle stir in the air carried the harsh flavor his cigarette to her. Even that soothed her, a foot rub and neck message rolled into one. Almost orgasmic.

"Here I thought all those times you were trying to kill me, you were trying to kill me," she said folding her arms across her chest. The smile across her face betrayed her bitter tone.

Spike lowered his hand, a stream of smoke spiraled upward. An arrogant smirk dimpled the corners of his lips as smoke billowed from his nostrils. He looked every inch the picture of cocky confidence. It was a supreme mask that concealed his worst fears. He was glad she had picked up on the banter. Recently she has been taking herself far too serious. She had cause, but still, it was good to let it out every now and then.

"Thought about tossing you hand…"

His words rolled through the air, shivered down her spine, and settled deep within her; making her feel, not safe. Spike never made her feel safe, but sheltered.

Snuggled.

"…But," he left the statement. If she needed it explained then he seriously overestimated her when he first came to Sunnyhell all those years ago. It wasn't her mind he had been interested in studying. It was her spunk, her feisty playfulness, her deft improvising. The packaging had been easy on the eyes so that made his task a bit less torturous.

Her gaze rested on Spike's face, it still showed signs of the beating he suffered at Glory's hands. They had been able to get some blood into Spike, it wasn't much and with them being on the road, it had been infrequent, but it was better then nothing. All but a few of his cuts were gone, and the flesh around his right eye had dulled to a pale purple.

It made her wonder as to how much he truly has healed. If his accelerated healing was anything like hers, then cosmetic wounds cuts and bruises healed quickly, far faster then broken bones or serious internal injurious, then there was every possibility he was still injured and was simply putting on a brave front.

_It would be so like him_.

"So?"

Spike crooked his left eyebrow, the check mark scar becoming more pronounced with the gesture. "So?" He echoed. His voice seemed to suggest a thousand different possibilities. Half of them weren't even all that lurid. He cast his gaze upward as if he was searching the sky.

There was a sublime sense to the moment, a dream or fantasy made reality. It was too good to be real, but Buffy was determined to savor it for as long as she could. All she wanted was a few minutes where her shoulders didn't carry the fate of the world, where every decision she made didn't possess the potential to doom hundreds, if not millions, to an existence worse then hell on earth.

"Ever wonder what's out there?" The question came from out of nowhere and Buffy blinked several times, as she tried to convince herself Spike had said something altogether different. "If there're any other critters like us… Or if we're it?"

Buffy smiled weakly as she gave Spike a small shake of her head. "You?"

Spike snorted at her. "With all my nefarious plots, like I have time to contemplate the vastness of the universe." He returned her smile, actually felt the mood lighten, could see the tension, a little of it, drain from her.

That lasted all of three seconds. "You know, not all of us are gonna make it?"

The right corner of Spike's lips quirked up a bare fraction, only his eyes didn't hold that glimmer of amusement that was normally there. "Hey," his voice already seemed resigned, "always knew I'd go down fighting."

Buffy chortled, a soft sound. No matter what else was going on Spike would always exude that cocky overconfidence. "I'm counting on you, to protect her." She couldn't bring herself to say what she needed him to protect Dawn from; didn't want to contemplate the thoughts in her head. It wasn't hard to imagine Giles planting a dagger in Dawn's heart if Glory did manage to start the ritual. She was a little surprised he hadn't brought it up at the meeting.

Then again, with Logan standing across the table, his glossy black eyes boring holes through Giles' skull. Maybe it wasn't that big of a surprise?

Giles wasn't a coward, far from it, every second he stayed proved that, but when it was guaranteed odds that vital organs would be lost playing the hand you were dealt, a smart man neatly folds and waits for the deck to be reshuffled and new cards to be passed around.

Once Spike promised, nobody, not Glory, not Giles, no one would hurt Dawn. It would be the same with Logan. Even after only knowing him for a few days she knew that, but asking him wasn't an option. He might look like a roughneck, even act it, but he wasn't stupid and she didn't want to get his wheels turning if she could help it. Asking that question would most definitely set that in motion.

This time his smirk was easier, lighter. Spike couldn't believe Buffy asked him to keep Dawn safe. Here they were, surrounded by dozens of super powered heroes, or hero wanna-bes, her papi included and she came to him. A piece of him, a tiny, insignificant piece relegated to far regions of his nether, was screaming at him to search for the poison needle hidden inside the golden apple, but it was a small voice, coming from very far away, Spike found it easy to ignore and simply concentrated on what he saw as truly important.

Buffy came to him. Buffy trusted him. Some part of her anyway. He wasn't going to fail. No matter what he would keep Dawn safe. "Till the end of the world," he vowed. It had the feel of a solemn oath. A contract inked in virgin blood. Then he shrugged in that irreverent, off hand manner and added, "Even if that happens to be tonight."

He looked back towards the Magic Box's alley door and jerked his thumb towards it. Much as he would like nothing more then hang out back and chat it up with the Slayer, even if they never said another word the rest of the night, morning was fast approaching. He could feel it blazing a blindingly brilliant path their way, along with their appointment. Besides, he was surprised her mates hadn't come out to find her; she had been gone a bloody long time. "Should probably head back inside, fore everyone starts wondering if we've run off and eloped."

A strong, slim fingered hand on his bicep stopped him in his tracks. "How're you feeling?" She asked when he looked back at her.

Spike blinked at her several times. It was almost a mirror image of her reaction to his question less then a minute ago, though it felt like a life time had passed in the interim. "A bit peckish actually."

Buffy rolled her eyes at Spike. "Your injuries, Glory, the knights," she ground out slowly.

"Good as can be expected," he said slowly, trying to gage what she was digging at. "Considering present circumstances."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Why, planning on taking a quick jaunt down to the Bronze and picking up an extra large platter of crispy buffalo wings?"

Buffy groaned softly as she said, "Damn it Spike. This is important. How can you protect Dawn when you can barely stand up?"

Spike's face whitened; if he had been alive it would have been crimson as he bite out, "Bloody well enough!"

"When?" Buffy demanded. She kept a tight hold of his arm. The fact he hadn't pulled away was proof enough that there was truth in her question. Her gaze pinned him to the floor as assuredly as her hand. "This morning? Last Night? At the motel? Before we left?"

Spike's glare was nearly hot enough to scorch her face clear off. At least get rid of that horrid little hook in her nose. It couldn't last though, not with her concern etched deep in the creases of her face. "I get myself a nip here and there."

"A nip here and there," Buffy scoffed. She could feel her ire rising and took a breath as she attempted to dampen her temper. Never an easy task no matter how short of a leash she kept herself on; which was like being tethered to the door. "What's that mean?"

Buffy knew what it meant though. Spike hadn't eaten since they were on the road; twenty-four, thirty-six hours ago. It seemed like a thousand years ago. She wished, desperately so, that she had thought to send someone— Amanda, maybe?— to the butcher to get a few pints of blood for Spike.

There was nothing to do for it now.

Or was there?

Her mind raced. The implications… She didn't let her mind settle on anything. If she did, if she spent a single second, the span of a heartbeat, actually giving thought to what she was considering she would stop in an instant, she would return to her safe world, never have to admit that thought ever even flittered, however briefly, through her mind. Never have to acknowledge the fact that there was more to the thought then Dawn's safety in the conflicting feelings swirling inside her.

The stake was in her hand, seeming to appear out of thin air. Spike's eyes widened at the sudden movement. The stake plunged downward; the sharpened piece of wood pierced her flesh. She winced at the pain, a small grimace as blood began to pool around the stake.

"Hell," Spike growled. He pulled the stake out of her arm, tossing it away as he wrapped his left hand around her wrist. The hot fluid slicked his hand, could feel it squishing between his fingers. The scent of her blood filled his nostrils, it was cherry blossoms and cinnamon mixed with a tequila shooter chaser. It set his skin ablaze, turned his veins to ice. His entire body tingled, pulsed with his desire. His stomach churned with it. "Bloody hell Slayer. What the bloody hell are you about?"

Buffy jerked her arm, only it didn't budge. To her astonishment she couldn't break Spike's grip. His hand held her arm steady. She firmed her expression, wiping out whatever doubts she felt. "You need to feed."

"Not like this I bloody well don't," Spike growled fiercely. His eyes flashed amber in the dim lighting of the alley, giving voice to his unspoken desire.

"You need—"

He shock his head, his voice softer as he said, "Doesn't matter a wit what I need. The world needs you a damn sight more then it's ever needed… You can't be bled out with what's to come, what you have to face."

"I'm not… We're talking a pint, not putting me in a critical care unit. Half an hour I'll be fine."

The hunger burned in Spike. It had been months since he's drank anything of substance. While the slop the butcher sold was fit to keep a vampire unlived, it had all the appeal, all the taste of watery paste. It made chugging old fashion cough syrup— not the modern stuff that comes in fifty-two fun filled flavors— seem the thrill of a lifetime. It made the few nips of human blood he's had over the last year taste like the sweetest wine ever made.

What Buffy was offering him, Slayer blood, was the elixir the gods themselves drank. He knew the flavor well, even if it had been more then twenty years since the last time he indulged.

That occasion was completely different. Nikki had been fighting for her life. Buffy was offering herself up to him. Their relationship had changed so much since their first encounter outside the bronze, when he informed her of her impending death at his hands.

Slowly, ever so slowly he raised her wrist, giving her every chance to reconsider, to change her mind. His eyes stayed locked on hers, watching them for the slightest change. Hoping she would falter, waver. Any indication she suddenly changed her mind. He knew better, knew that once Buffy got some notion in her head it would take god himself to get it out of there.

It was a struggle, the hardest battle he has ever fought, but his face remained his own. He might be a monster, nothing more then a fiend, but he would be damned if she ever saw his other face again.

The first drop of her blood touched his tongue. It was lightening made liquid. It surged through his body, tingled head to toe all at once. Filled him with vigor and vitality and desire; an all consuming desire. He was drowning in her essence and hurtling towards space, rocketing upwards at the speed of light. He wanted this feeling to go on forever, wished with all his being, every fiber that it never would end.

His lips touched her flesh, latched on like a babe at their mother's tit and suckled. Despite the nights warmth goose bumps raced up and down her flesh and a strange warmth filed her. There was no pain, it was nothing at all like she had expected.

With the others there had been pain, their teeth plunging into her, penetrating her flesh. The hard, greedy way they drank from her.

So different from Spike's gentle, nearly reverent suckling. The feeling was so hypnotic, so mesmerizing that she could became lost in the sensation. That she could just let everything go. No worries. No more responsibilities.

Buffy titled her head, glanced towards the large building across the alley. She couldn't see Logan, but he was there. Had been for some time. She expected he wasn't pleased with her decision. It didn't matter, right was right.

----------------------------------------------------------

Logan growled low in his chest. It was deep and savage; any animal that heard the sound would have recognized it for what it was. A parent warning something dangerous away from their cub, a generalized if you don't back away now there won't be enough of you left to feed the buzzard.

Small animals that made their home upon the roof hunkered down, hoping the intruding predator didn't take any interest in them. A few, brave ones, stupid ones, broke cover and made a mad dash on wing or furry footed paw, for the relative safety of being elsewhere.

Razor sharp blades slid from between his knuckles as he watched the scene play out below him. It was wrong, that fact was burned into his bones, through the adamantium coating them. It turned his blood to acid.

He could remember a time when demons ruled this world, when he spent everyday keeping the people safe, sniffing out threats to the clan, tracking them down, and putting them in the ground.

The rush of adrenaline flooding his body. The surge of blood pounding in his veins. Cool air steaming against hot flesh. The ring of steel striking steel, the shower of sparks that light the darkness in flashes. The feel of steel as it ripped flesh, the shock that shimmied up his arm.

They weren't his memories. They stretched back thousands upon thousands of years and were shoved into his head in the most haphazard, slipshod fashion imaginable. There was no sense of time with these memories and there were gaps, large gaps and Logan was grateful for them.

His own memories started sometime during the eighteen eighties, maybe as early as seventy-seven. They were hazy in some areas, incomplete in others. Sitting by his mother's bedside, reading to her each night by the bright glow of the lantern. Spending his days with Rose, the companion his grandfather brought to their estate. That night when their groundskeeper tried to kidnap his mother, trying to stop him, being tossed away, desperately searching for a weapon, anything that he could use to stop him, his father's arrival, a scuffle, his father being bested, and the gun being aimed at his father. His mad dash, jumping in front of his father, the excruciating pain as the heavy bullet punched a hole through his chest, through his heart. Gasping in pain, all the blood pooling around his body, hot and sticky. So hot against the ice seeping through him.

Not wanting to die, desperately so. Wishing that the hand of god would reach down from heaven and make him whole once more. All for Rose. All so he could tell her just how much he loved her. In all his life he had never wanted anything so much. Knowing he was never going to have that chance now made his shattered heart beat faster, stronger then it ever had before.

Suddenly he felt, different. Deep in his core, in the fiber that was him there was a tingling, a shimmering sensation. His flesh felt seared and he gasped again, sucking in a ragged breath as pain flared around the bullet hole. It itched like nothing he ever felt before and simply wanted to claw the flesh from his body.

Only he could feel the bullet hole closing, flesh and bone knitting themselves back together. In moments he was whole; from the edge of death to healed. Even the sickliness that had robbed him of all the activities most children took for granted were gone. He could breath easier and his limbs felt strong. He was able to see perfectly without his glasses, better then perfect, sharper and cleaner then he ever could have imagined. People's voices sounded, louder. The perfumes smelt stronger, exotic.

In the confusion the groundskeeper fled the room, not that any of them noticed him go. He wasn't even a periphery object in their universe.

"You're alive," Mother had said. The look on her face was unreadable.

"How?" Father's voice was hard as angry steel. It was not a sound he never heard before. Not from his father, he was always such an even tampered man. "You were shot in the chest."

"You should be dead."

"People don't survive getting shot in the chest."

"Who are you?"

"It's me mother, your son—"

"Don't you say that. Don't you dare."

"It's—"

"Abomination."

"My son is dead…"

"Monster."

"…Whatever compacts you have made with dark powers. You are not my son. I will not abide to suffer your continence in my house—"

"Get out!"

"Mother—"

"Get out! Get out!"

"Mother—"

"Get out! Get out! Get out!"

A book flew across the room, striking him in the face. Blood spurted from his nose. "Mother!" He wiped at the blood.

A second book hurtled at him. "Get out!" It struck him across his forehead, splitting his eyebrow. "Get out!"

He fell back, landing in a heap. "Mother!" Blood poured from the wicked cut above his eye for a handful of seconds before slowing and then stopping altogether.

Even as the wound closed, leaving the flesh unmarked a third book struck him. Then his mother heaved a heavy silver tray at him. Her voice became a feverish wail, a shrill screech that became more and more desperate each time she shouted at him.

He scrambled backwards, a strange blood covered crab trying to avoid the projectiles his mother hurled at him with deadly intent on her mind. Hot, scalding tears streamed down his blood smeared face, cutting runnels through the sticky, slickness.

In short moments he managed to clamor through the doorway and into the hall beyond, mainly because his mother had run out of things to throw at him. That and his father had finally managed to calm her slightly, wrapping her in his strong arms as she sobbed brokenly.

His father's eyes caught him, held him for a moment. They seethed with an abysmal hatred. As if something inside him were broken and a black pestilence was making him whole again. He knew, in that moment, that if his father possessed a gun he would have used it to shoot him dead.

He wanted to sob, to demand to know what he must do to set everything right again, to make them like they had been a few, short moments ago. Only he couldn't. His father's eyes told him everything. He couldn't stay here. This was no longer his home.

Scrambling away as fast as he could, the first few yards going on his hands and knees before climbing back to his feet, he rushed towards his room. There wasn't much time; he could feel it ticking away, like grains of sand in an hourglass.

His room was exactly how he remembered leaving it. Everything had a place and everything was in its place. The room was neat and tidy, his bed was made, the floors were clean and his books were put up on a small shelf.

He burst into his room, caught sight of himself in the tall mirror as he rushed past. He was still dreadfully thin with spindlely limbs and a torso no thicker then a plank of wood. His skin was ghastly pale and lank hair the color autumn leaves after all the life had bled out of them. The result of living a sedentary, solitary life and being allergic to nearly everything.

Moving away from the mirror, he cleaned himself up as best he could in the basin of water left in his room, giving himself a hasty sponge bath, and scrubbing off what blood he could.

He quickly gathered a few possessions together. He had never actually spent very much time out of doors, and not at all for any extended period of time; half an hour at most, normally far less.

He had, however read both Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn and had a fair idea as to what he would need to survive in the wild. He turned one of his bed sheets into a bundle by tying the corners together around his few possessions.

He put out a pair of heavy wool undergarments, then dressed in fresh clothes pulled on his most durable pair of shoes, put on an extra shirt, his jacket, overcoat, and heaviest cloak, the one he had never worn before. He tied a length of cord to his bundle, and slung it over his shoulders.

Taking a quick look at himself in the mirror he was startled to see just how much bulk the extra clothes added to him. The illusion might fool some people, the ones that had no clue who he was to begin with, but he still knew that beneath all the clothes he was still a seventeen year old, five foot five inch tall, ninty-three pound, scrawny frame, prissy little book worm.

He turned to leave and stopped. Looming in the doorway was the one person he had been hoping to avoid.

Grandfather.

The old man was as large as he was small. At his advance years he was as fit as a man a third his age. Long years of arduous, back breaking work. He was a man of action and few words; none of which were more then two or three syllables long.

A high powered rifle was cradled in the crook of his right arm, slung over his left shoulder was a gun belt with a pair of Colt forty-five caliber pistols. A storm was raging in his green eyes, and his face was a steel mask, just like it always was.

"Man doesn't generally get up and walk away after taking a slug in the chest." The words were spat out, like proclaiming a curse. He swung the rifle around with a casual familiarity.

"Grandfather?"

"Course then, us Howletts have always been a tough breed." For the first time he heard pride in his Grandfather's voice. The older man tossed the rifle to the boy, who caught it awkwardly in both hands. He fumbled it slightly coming close to dropping it, but managed to hold on.

Barely.

The grandfather stepped forward with surprising quickness for one so large; and shrugged the gun belt off his shoulder. He knelt down and buckled the belt around the boy's waist. His rough hewn voice continued to drone on. He sounded incredibly pleased. "You're father's in a right royal state, going on about compacts and devils and other such nonsense."

"You don't believe him?"

"I've seen a bit of the world in my years and I ain't never seen anything make me believe… Man can be evil enough all on their own to each other without no need to be inventing some devil to blame it all on. Easier I suppose to say the devil made me do it then owning up to the sin yourself."

"I didn't do anything."

"Frankly boy, doesn't matter a wit to me. You're alive and that's all I give a damn about."

"But—"

"No buts boy." He pressed a wad of money into the boys hand, but didn't release it. "Sometimes, a body can want something so much that it comes to pass. Never heard nothing like this before, but I've heard of others and from men I believe. They say one man can bend steel just by looking at it. If that can be true then why can't my grandson heal from getting shot in only minutes. What makes one more possible then the other."

He gave a curt nod, more for himself then the boy, and squeezed his fist tight around the cash n his palm. "There's a thousand dollars there—"

"Grandfather, I can't take—"

A hard slap from a callused palm stopped his protest on the instant. His eyes rang and for a moment his vision swam. "You'll take it and you'll do exactly as I tell you. Edmonton, it's the first place they'll look for you, if'n they look, but it can't be helped. It's the only place you'll find transport west, or any place else for that matter. Now its two days by coach, so it'll likely take you a few more, but there's no help for it. Take the first passage west, but don't use your own name. Wished there was some way to fatten you up a bit, put some hair on that face of yours. I could grow a full beard before I saw my fourteenth winter."

"I'm sorry Grandfather."

"Don't be, don't ever be sorry for who you are boy. Try and dirty yourself up a bit before you reach Edmonton, and remember don't go by your own name, Logan. That money will help set you up and should tide you over for some time. Long enough for me to get things settled down and send for you."

The grandfather stared at him hard, committing his face to memory. "Go, swiftly." He pushed the boy toward the door. "Remember who you are boy, never forget that."

The powerful voice chased him down the hall. It flogged at him, flayed his mind like a whip would his flesh. Leaving raw bleeding welts where cured rawhide struck tender skin. He planned to do exactly as Grandfather said, only there was someone he needed to see. Rose, the one he staved off death for. The gun belt was heavy and awkward around his waist. He tugged at it, trying to hold it up as he raced through the manor. The guns kept slapping against his thighs. He could feel the flesh bruising as he ran. He had never exerted himself so much before. His lungs burned, every muscle in his body ached with the effort. He wanted to stop where he was, lie down and sleep for a week.

The small cottage Rose kept on the back parcel of land came into view as he burst out the backdoor. He stumbled, nearly crashed in a heap as he clamored down the back stairs. He caught hold of the railing and managed to keep himself upright. Several wood splinters tore into his soft flesh.

He slowed down as he neared the cottage. It was a single story building whose wooden walls were painted a pristine white, like polished ivory. A hooded stove pipe made of tin stuck up above the peak of the roof and a heavy tendril of smoke curled in the sky. Spring curtains shrouded the numerous windows even though the temperatures were cold enough for thicker.

He knocked at the door, a gentle but insistent rap. It was the only time he could remember taking such action. Always, it was Rose coming to see him.

He looked back the way he had come. He could feel eyes on his back. Every second brought him closer to discovery. He could feel it, the way his skin crawled.

There was nothing behind him.

He turned back to the door and knocked again; louder this time. There was movement deep within the cottage. Sounds he knew he shouldn't be able to hear, yet they were loud in his ears and coming closer.

Rose.

She emerged from a back room, slipping a heavy robe over her delicate shoulder and cinched it tight around her waist. A bedroom perhaps. He didn't know. This was as close to her domain as he has ever been.

The mere sight of her quickened his breath, made his pulse race, and his heart thunder in his ears. She was a vision, pure beauty that made the most brilliant sunrise a hideous mask. Her hair hung in soft fiery ringlets that reached well past her shoulders; green eyes burned with desire that matched the color of her hair for intensity.

She was perfection made flesh.

She looked surprised to see him there, but extremely happy as well and rushed to answer the door. She pulled it open with a joyous, "James! What a pleasant surprise. You've finally come for your first visit but why so late at night?" If she noticed the weapons he carried or his harried manner she never said.

"I have to leave," he answered with a quick glance over his shoulder. For the first time he realized how dark it had gotten. The moon was high in the sky and the sun had already vanished below the horizon. To him though, it was still dusk. A little brighter, but not noticeably so.

"What? Why?" She sounded stunned and hurt.

"Something's happened. Something I can't explain, not now, but I have to go. I can't stay here any longer." Again he looked over his shoulder then turned his attention back to Rose as he said, "But I couldn't leave, not without you."

"Without me?" Her voice sounded distant, as if there was something she didn't understand.

He chewed nervously at the inside of his lips, working it over viscously before blurting out, "I love you Rose." His voice broke, a rough tremble that made him doubt his masculinity.

"You love me?" There was a scandalous sound to her voice.

He nodded as he said, "Since the moment my eyes first drowned, soaking in your beauty. I have loved you from afar, filling my journals with pretty words and flowery phases trying to capture your beauty, your dazzling brilliance only to fail miserably on each and every occasion. My words were pale shadows compared to the radiance of the early morning sun as it sparkled over the morning frost. I was meaning to paint the sun and drawing nothing more then a flickering candle. I try to describe the majesty of the ocean and only tell about a mundane stream. Mere words simply cannot do the radiance that is your beauty justice."

Her checks were wet; tears leaked from her eyes. There was a look of sublime joy suffusing her face, making it flush, glow with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. She reached out, her fingertips just grazing his flesh with the softest, most ethereal touch. "Oh James. That was… That was truly beautiful. You have such a gift with words. I wished—" She stopped abruptly, took a breath and swallowed hard. When Rose began again she was calmer, more in control. "You are my best friend in all the world James and I wish I felt for you even a fraction of what you feel for me. You're a wonderful boy, who will doubtfully grow into a fine man, but the fact is you are still a boy and I need a man."

The memory became fuzzy again. There was a chase, a flight into the woods. He remembered vowing to return, to claim Rose when he became a man.

Later, when he was older, how much older he doesn't know; only that he looked much as he did now. There was another memory, not the movie like memory he had just finished watching were he was James Howlett, experiencing everything as if he was the boy Howlett. This memory was more like a snap shot, but the emotions, the sense of betrayal, were seared into his mind as if it was happening this very minute.

He was back at the manor, it was heavy winter and snow and ice covered everything. Thick icicles hung everywhere, from tree branches to eaves of the house, some more then twenty feet to the heavy blanket of snow covering the ground. Ice crystals sparkled, catching and reflecting the high afternoon sun. He knelt on the ground cradling Rose's lifeless body in his arms rocking back and forth, whispering silent words of denial. A bullet had shattered her chest, and the snow all around was soaked red with her blood. His own rifle had been tossed off to the side. There was nothing to indicate who shot her. It could have been him in a fit of jealous rage, or it could have been somebody else entirely.

What astonished him most, more then the memories themselves, was just how much Rose resembled Jean; the two could have passed for sisters, at the very least, maybe even twins.

The memories raised even more doubts about himself. What if he was capable of killing somebody he claimed to love, and the way he felt about Jean, since he first laid eyes on her… What if they were nothing but the residue of his— of James— love for Rose rising to the surface?

Was there even anything of James left in him? Or had Stryker's operations, his experimental procedures stripped away all that he had been, left him barren. A blank slate Stryker would have filled to his liking.

Only he never got the chance.

Logan stepped back to the ledge and looked over. Buffy and Spike were still below. He didn't know how long that memory lasted for; it might have only been seconds, it could've been minutes. He simply didn't know.

He would like nothing better then to carve Spike into bite size pieces and feed him to the fish. Only the fish had never done anything to him.

That wasn't the only reason he stayed his hand. No matter how much it nauseated him, both Buffy and Dawn cared about the vampire. If Spike were to suddenly disappear, into a dust cloud that was scattered to the winds, it would cause his girls pain and he wasn't about to start doing that.

They had been dealt enough to last a lifetime already.

He could wait. Bide his time. Keep one eye firmly attached to the vampire's back. And if he ever did step out of line.

Well, he would be there.


	23. Chap 11: The Famous Final Scene Part 2

Chapter Eleven: One Child/The Famous Final Scene—Part Two

Faith leaned back against the door casing, the smoke from her pilfered Marlborough drifted into the early morning sky; stars were beginning to blink out of existence as they fell below the eastern horizon. The door tapped her outstretched foot; it absorbed the impact with a little give, flexed and the door bounced back several inches before the process was repeated.

Again and again and again.

It was a mind numbing process, with its slow repetitiveness. Not that Faith noticed; her dark eye gaze followed the streamer of smoke skyward, into the still air. It seemed heavy with anticipation, like a hot august afternoon, with an explosive thunderstorm in the offing, hanging just on the horizon.

In the alley that ran behind the magic she could hear the solid thud of flesh striking flesh. Faith could feel the presence of a pair vampires. One was a weak, pathetic creature. The other was powerful and proud. Given Buffy's proximity that made the second vampire Spike.

She continued to lean against the casing. Faith doubted if Buffy needed or required help. If she did Spike was keeping an eye on her backside; the shape of her ass, the swell of her breast; let him give her a hand.

Faith couldn't wait to be in the thick of it, fighting for her life, throwing herself in harm's way, pitting her slayer enhanced self against whatever Glory had to throw at them. Waiting for her shot at the self obsessed deity was a fine itch between her shoulders.

The why still eluded her; Buffy alluded to the fact that fighting Glory was the equivalent of pummeling a rag doll, only she was the rag doll and had been fortunate Glory simply didn't rip her arms off. Judging her own, albeit, very brief encounter, Faith had to agree with her fellow slayer's assessment.

The fact she was still here, that she hadn't taken off at her first chance was gnawing at her. Faith knew her chances of surviving the upcoming battle were about as good as the lobster getting out of the boiling pot alive. She didn't owe the Scoobs, Buffy included, a damn thing.

None of them had ever given her chance, and when the first little thing went wrong they tossed her to the curb faster then curdled milk. With about the same look on their collective faces.

She could be gone, slip off into the night with nobody the wiser. She could have miles between herself and Sunnydale before anybody even realized she was gone. In twelve hours California would be nothing more then a distant memory.

Only doing what was easy, looking out for herself had never accomplished anything. It never made her life better. Only alone, and she was so very tired of being alone.

Once this was over, if she survived, she was seriously considering taking Xavier up on his offer. A chance to start over, fresh, with no expectations; it was an opportunity she would be a fool to pass up. It was something she would never get here, not with the history she had…

Willow still hadn't said two words to her, at least not without them having to be dragged out of her throat first. Xander simply eyed her a bit warily, every now and then fingering his throat. Anya simply declared Xander was hers and that she would have to get her orgasms elsewhere. Faith had managed to keep her mouth shout despite the retort lodged in her throat.

She couldn't blame either of them. She had tried to kill both of them, almost choking the life out of Xander and pressing a the razor keen edge of her dagger into Willow's throat and promising the timid redhead that if she stepped out of line again the heavy blade would do a hell of a lot worse then leave a welt.

The scariest part to her was that, at the time she had meant it. She had been so far over that edge there had been no way back for her, and every step she took just seemed like a natural progression. Like man walking upright, and learning how to use tools and harness fire. There didn't appear to be anyway back; at least nothing she could see at the time.

Maybe there had been, but nobody ever looked for it; especially not her or Buffy. Always too busy with their little games of upsmanship. You get me, I get you back.

Faith smirked lightly at the young Asian girl's hesitant approach. The door stuck the sole of her boot with a whispered thud. With her little display back at the Black Bird, Faith didn't think Jubilation… _And I thought my parents hated me_. …Lee was daunted by anything. The girl had a brave front up, appeared all cool and aloof, seemed to act indifferent and unfazed by the proceedings. Faith could see through the mask though. It was easy, she had worn one very like it for years now.

She couldn't help but wonder exactly what tall, or maybe not so tall, tales Willow and that group had been spreading about her. Even if there wasn't anything worse then the truth, that was still bad enough.

"So," Faith said suddenly, her soft voice cutting through the silence. Jubilee gave a slight start, without her slayer enhanced senses Faith doubted she would have caught the slight movement. "You the sacrificial offering to see if the big bad slayer is—"

Apparently Jubilee wasn't the patient type; either that or she used her brashness to cover the fact she was nervous as she cut Faith off saying, "You're a slayer, like Buffy—"

"Yeah," Faith returned cutting into whatever Jubilee was about to say. Turnabout was only fair play. "Like Buffy." There was no hiding the bitterness in her words. Always being compared to Buffy was tiring, not to mention infuriating. She had about as much in common with Buffy as a field mouse and a hamster had in common with each other.

Jubilee's glare was nearly enough to set off a fourth of July fireworks display without benefit of her plasma bombs. "You're strong?" It didn't sound so much like a question as it did a fishing expedition. Faith smiled at the young girl and Jubilee couldn't help but think, _if a shark smiled that's what it would look like_. Jubilee didn't like the look, she had seen similar when she had been forced to make the streets of LA her home before being taken in by Xavier. She avoided their like back then and wasn't sure she wanted to stick her hand in this hornet's nest.

"Yeah," Faith agreed after a pause. "Super strong."

Only there was no backing out now. The only course of action left for was to plunge straight ahead and hope for the best. "Know how to fight? Kill things?"

"What're you digging for?" Faith asked as she dropped her spent cigarette to the concrete. It smoldered there before she crushed under her foot.

"You see that big guy?" Jubilee finally asked with a sharp gesture toward John. The tall Indian was the center of a small group. He was keeping their attention with his low insistent voice and emphatic gestures. He was going on about, how, when at thirteen he killed a bison with his bare hands. Chased it over the prairie and then pulled it down, snapping its neck.

The entire scene brought back memories of her first few days in this cursed town. She had been pulling stories out of her ass trying to impress Buffy and her friends. If she had it to do all over again, she knew she would still end up humping the pooch.

The kid was definitely a fine specimen of masculinity, the sort she had always targeted back in the day. In both his physical appearance and demeanor. A couple of years ago she would have made a special point of humiliating him in the most ego deflating way possible, making sure there was a full compliment of friends and onlookers.

Fucking guys just to make them feel small and insignificant had lost what little appeal it once held for her. John Proudstar might be the biggest ass in the world; and if not him, it would be somebody pretty much identical.

It was just one more thing she was tired of. As much as she hated to admit it, Faith wanted something more then the get some, get gone motto she always lived her life by. She wanted a connection, a spark; something like Buffy always went on about. Something like Red and her little blonde witch seemed to have.

"Nope," Faith deadpanned as she liberated another Marlborough from its cardboard confinement.

"Har—Har," Jubilee laughed. "Like I've never heard that one before." The mocking sarcasm wasn't lost on the taller brunette; Faith just tried to ignore it. "The guys a jerk, a way major jerk. Says girls don't have the fortitude for a real fight, that we should all stay in the kitchen… Barefoot and pregnant. Do our part to keep the men folk—"

"Jubilee," Faith cut in sharply, bringing the young girl to an abrupt stop. "I kill demons. Evil demons, not mutants. Not even the chauvinistic kind. If you can prove to me he's an evil demon…" She shrugged, almost sadly as she added, "Otherwise," and let the rest of the thought trail off.

Faith didn't like the gleam that suddenly sparkled in Jubilee's eyes. It was the same sort of spark that flashed through a madman's just before he started with the butchering. At least that was the way it always happened in the movies she enjoyed so much growing up; before her life turned into one exceedingly long nightmare.

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The girl's face was so serene as she gazed straight ahead, too serene. Her dark eyes seemed to stare right through you. Her dark, auburn hair was straight, exceedingly fine, but strong; almost as strong as steel. There wasn't a blemish, not even the tiniest mark to mar her perfection, but considering her skin was an extremely advance, flesh like plasticine compound, that was to be expected.

Touching the androids flesh had sent a faint shiver down Amanda's spine. It felt like flash and even had warmth. The eyes, so life like; never even registered her. They stared ahead completely unaware of anything going on, didn't blink, didn't twitch… Just stared straight ahead, as if she weren't there.

If Willow didn't have the access panel open Amanda wouldn't have been able to tell that what was standing in front of her wasn't human. "You really think you can teach her to fight?" Amanda finally asked as she stepped back, gazing at the android, doubt flitting through her eyes.

"It's not teaching," Willow grunted as she plugged the cables into the jacks. "It's programming."

Amanda rolled her eyes. She disliked computers, they were so impersonal. Talking to one was akin to talking a wall; there was no talking them around to your point of view. Computer geeks were worse, they treated computers like they were more real then real people. They even created their own secret language and if you did know the proper code words they looked at you as if you were some sort of mutated alien. "You really think you can program her to fight?"

"No…" Willow began calmly.

If Amanda didn't know better, which she didn't, she would think the tiny redhead was toying with her the way she sometimes toyed with men. "Then why are you…?"

"…the algorithms and the lines of code necessary would take weeks to write and even more weeks to debug." Willow continued as if she didn't hear Amanda. "Time we don't have. So instead I'll copy the Buffybot's combat algorithms onto Warren's homemade girlfriend here."

"You can really teach her to fight like Buffy?" Amanda questioned with a playful smile.

"Program," Willow replied forcefully; more forcefully then she intended. In a softer more controlled voice she said, "Program, not teach… Not yet anyway. Another ten years, maybe, maybe not even that long before programming becomes advanced enough where computers, androids, become self aware."

"Then what… We end up with Skynet?"

Willow glanced up briefly from her computer, confusion in her voice as she murmured, "Skynet?"

"Terminator," Amanda provided. Something about the premise of the movies; soulless, remorseless machines bent on the complete and utter extermination of the human race, had always disturbed her; sent a chill down her spine. As if somebody had walked over one of her many graves.

With a nod Willow bent back over her laptop. "I suppose something like that might be possible. Not with our level of technology, nowhere near enough automation or remote access control. Most of our vital components, key military installations and units are still isolated components."

Amanda wasn't so sure. People put far too much faith in computers for her liking. They were becoming too dependent on them. Most people did next to nothing for themselves now, didn't know how, not like back in the old days when everyone was self reliant. Most people hunted their own food, kept a patch of land for personal crops; they were able to build adequate furniture. Now everyone was so specialized. If it involved more then a drive to the local super-mall, if it was more complicated then punching a couple buttons on the microwave, most people wouldn't know what to do. Amanda knew it wasn't quite that bad… yet, but it was coming close.

Still she was having far too much fun needling Willow to stop now. "Can you teach these things anything?"

A soft, "Why me," sigh slipped past Willow's lips. Correcting Amanda was proving to be as trying as correcting Buffy, only she was pretty sure Buffy wasn't being deliberately dense; most of the time. She desperately wished Tara was present. Amanda had taken an instant liking to the soft spoken blonde and was making a consorted effort to pull her even further from her shell. A small pang of guilt settled in her stomach for wanting to sacrifice her girlfriend so, but if it would get Amanda to leave her in peace, even for just the few minutes it would take her to complete this somewhat delicate process.

"Pretty much," she finally answered. "Get the programming right and robots can do just about anything."

The gleam in Amanda's eyes was speculative. She could think of a good many reason's why an exact double of herself would be a useful thing to have around. Especially on those awkward occasions when she needed an alibi. She might be playing the straight and narrow now, but she wasn't planning on being an angel forever.

Forever was a long time after all.

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The small group of young mutants watched Duncan with rapt attention; after a brief grilling Scott Summers had given his seal of approval and Logan added his endorsement. It was an occasion, to say the least, when the two senior X-Men agreed on something. It was almost enough to cause the students to go into a state of collective shock. So far they found Duncan to be eminently approachable; polite, friendly although he could be a little distant at times, like his mind was a thousand miles away.

Duncan took in the young faces; some of them little more then babies, so young and full of innocence, and felt every one of his four hundred and ten years. There were times in his life where he's led children as young as these in front of him into battle…

_To their deaths_.

They had all been eager and excited, unwilling to wait to leave their mark on the world. Willing to give all they had and more for what they believed in. Just like this group of children, and just as scared of the uncertainty speeding toward them. What the future held for them; Glory or death?

More then a hundred years had passed since he last led anyone in battle, a personal vow he's held all these years. The question now was whether his honor outweighed the fate of the world. His knowledge and experience vastly outstripped everyone present; with a few possible exceptions. To deny them that because of a personal oath, was selfish. It was something he couldn't do, not with the stakes so high; literally everything hung in the balance.

"Your accent…" Marie started. A strand of pure white hair fell across her face and she brushed it out of the way with a gloved hand. The girl insisted on everyone calling her Rogue, though for the life of him Duncan couldn't figure out why. Like most of the children in the room, Duncan doubted if there was a single scoundrelous bone in any of them. Except for da Costa, that boy had the air of a Pirate Prince in the making. "…doesn't sound anything like Rahne. Or Theresa for that matter." Duncan didn't bother to tell Marie that her own, deep Mississippi Bayou accent was quite different from the people who called that region home only a century ago.

"Ach," Rahne groaned softly. "How many times do I have to tell you… Theresa's Irish, not Scottish."

"You're'll from the same island," Marie pointed out.

"Please," Danielle piped up, "that's like saying because John and I are both Native American that we're from the same tribe."

A frown creased Marie's lips as she said, "You're not?" She murmured softly.

A thin smile cut Duncan's face in two. His dark eyes danced with concealed mirth. He was glad to see they were still acting like teenagers. At least they had managed to put aside what was going to happen in a few hours, too bicker like teenagers will. _It's good their not dwelling on it_.

It was his voice, but he knew the thought to be a remnant of his long time friend, Frank Burns. When he took his quickening he also absorbed the essence of the man. It merged with all the others, all their knowledge, their experience, all their power, all the essences' that were a part of them, became a part of him.

It simply was the way it was.

Most of the time he couldn't distinguish if a particular thought was his or one of the others. It was one more thing he never spent long hours pondering. No Immortal did. At best it would only lead to madness.

This time he could, and he was glad about that.

"You do realize that I am just a tad older, have traveled a fair bit in those added years then your wee bonnie lass here. Why, I'd imagine if I were to talk as I did when I was an age with our little Rahne here that none of you be able to understand naught but a fifth of what I said. Not even Rahne. It would sound like a completely foreign language to what you're used to hearing."

He had dropped into the heavy brogue of his youth and by the confusion marring their faces he had proved his point. Only Rahne looked like she understood more then every third word.

"Did you understand what he just said?"

"Not a word."

"Sounded like a lecture…"

"I know."

"Tell me about it."

"… and I just sort of blanked it all out."

Duncan's smile was more open as he listened to the voices. He didn't try to follow them, just let their collective sound wash over him.

After a minute, a little longer he felt off was time to get back to the business at hand and get the introductions out of the way. "Now I know most of your names, Rahne, Bobby, Katherine—"

"Kitty," the young girl interjected.

"Kitty," Duncan corrected with a small nod. "Danielle, Marie. Since we might end up working together maybe you should tell me a bit about your powers? After that I'll tell you a little about myself. So who wants to start off?"

"God," Marie muttered, "he does sound like a teacher."

"A volunteer," Duncan declared somewhat impishly.

Marie's head shot up with a startled, "What?" As she felt Duncan's gaze settle on her. "You can't mean me… Do you?"

Duncan's unwavering brown eyes told her that was exactly what he meant. _This is exactly like the first day at a new school, having to stand up in front of the whole class and say… "Hi, my name is—" …only I ain't never done that_.

"You get it over with nice and quick," Kitty offered helpfully. She wasn't sure if it did help; she had the sinking feeling it didn't.

"Think of it like pulling a splinter, once its over, its over." Rahne added almost on top of Kitty.

"So not helping guys," Marie informed them through ground teeth. She could tell from the brown steel filling Duncan's eyes that there was no getting around this. Breathing in deeply she exhaled and said, "Most of yous already know, my names Marie but I prefer being called Rogue because I can't touch anybody without stealing who they are. If my skin touches anybody else's skin I steal everything about them. That's why I'm usually covered up all the time; and make extra sure I'm careful when I'm not, because touching anybody, even a little might kill them."

That was something Duncan hadn't seen coming. The most he had to concern himself with was an Immortal out to take his head, or perhaps some rogue element within the Watcher's organization. He had been accounted a man better then a decade before he died his first death, and while he knew well the bitter taste of being shunned and cast out by those he called family, the fear these children must endure, from such an early age, was one he could only imagine.

"I know what that feels like," Danielle said into the heavy silence. "My powers won't kill anyone, I don't think so anyway, but they have hurt people. The first time my powers manifested they pulled this nightmarish image of a monstrous black bear mauling my grandfather. He took it in stride, accepted them, accepted me… Said I was as the Great Spirit intended, but that I would need to learn to harness my gifts so I didn't accidentally harm someone. He told me about this school he had seen in one of his visions, that he hadn't understood it at the time, but now he did. He said that I was supposed to go there, that the people there would help me.

"Of course I didn't listen to him. I figured now that I knew about my powers I'd be able to control them. That lasted all of about twenty-four hours, just until I went to school the following day when I tapped my best friend's greatest fantasy and showed the entire school his dream of declaring his love for the star quarterback—"

"Wow," Kitty breathed out softly. "What happened?"

Danielle glanced up, her eyes moist with emotions. "He bolted from school like a startled colt. I took off after him, caught up with him in the school parking lot… Told him it didn't matter, that nobody'd care, but he'd always been one of those macho jocks and threw it back in my face, asking how'd I feel if he told the entire school I was some kind of freak mutant. The last time I saw him was when he peeled out of the parking lot into the teeth of the season's first blizzard.

"His truck was pulled out of ravine three days later, but he had already lapsed into a coma. He died later that night. He was diabetic and without taking his insulin…" She took a deep breath, gathered herself. "His two biggest secrets and I didn't know either one. I make one hell of a friend."

"It isn't your fault," Rahne said with quiet conviction. "You cannot know, none of us can know what others chose not to tell us. None of are mind readers," she deftly points out.

_If I were a better friend he would've told me_, the bitter thought raced across her mind in a red blaze. The words that came out of her mouth, numb as they were, were a complete contrast as she said, "Of course not." They were said more to mollify Rahne then because she agreed with the younger girl's sentiments. Rahne had such an innocent outlook, she was always so hopeful and upbeat that Danielle just couldn't bring herself to shatter her naiveté. She hated that one day the world would do just that.

Not for the first time since Jon took off, Bobby wished his erstwhile friend was here. The tension had become stifling. Jon would have made some inappropriate comment and the pall that hung over them would have broke. They would've had good laugh and moved on. Bobby wasn't sure he could do that, just open his mouth and insert foot.

Fortunately for him, just as he opened his mouth Kitty chimed in saying, "I feel like such a dweeb now. Here I am stressing over when my powers manifested, got a few headaches, lay down on my bed, and the next thing I know mom's asking me what's going on. I open my eyes and I'm floating in the air, staring at the kitchen ceiling. Suffice to say that startled me into solidity and I thudded into the kitchen floor. Good news was my headaches were gone so I didn't have to worry about brain tumors anymore," she said with a small laugh. "Mom and Dad took it in stride, mom even said, 'At least she ain't a lesbian so we still got grandchildren to look forward to.' I was so mortified, but not traumatized or anything. I just looked like a beet for about a week. Then the professor showed up and I started attending his school, which has been real nice, especially with all the problems my parents have been having lately… And I've sort of been babbling, haven't I?"

Danielle held up her right hand, thumb and forefinger separated by the width of a pencil lead and whispered conspiratorially, "Just a little."

Kitty returned the smile, it was sort of infectious. She didn't really mind making herself sound a fool if it helped a friend out, allowed them to take their mind off their own worries as it were. She had known Danielle for close to a year now and Marie just under six months. She considered both girls to be friends and hoped they returned the sentiment.

Besides it wasn't like she was reveling state secretes.

Roberto, with a healthy dose of Jubilee's help, had already done that.

About the only person who didn't know her life story was Mr. Macleod. Of course the Scotsman hadn't been at the school on the day Jubilee pilfered her dairy, and then left it the common room for anybody to pick up when she discovered the only people who would benefit from the thick book were insomniacs. Out of everyone that could have found her dairy lying around and return it to her the worst possibly one did. Not only did Roberto read it, but then he went and blabbed about everything little thing he found amusing, which was pretty much everything.

It had taught her a valuable lesson. Her diary entries were now kept under strict security, with numerous passwords and heavy encryptions. Nobody at the school had a chance to crack the enhanced security measures on her laptop.

"When the people of my village drove me out, saying I was demon spawn after I change shape the first time, Mrs. MacTaggert took me in, treated me like I was her own. I'd still be there now if Mrs. MacTaggert hadn't thought I needed to be around people my own age. So she packed me off to Professor Xavier's school, where I've met all of yous and made so many new friends."

"And we're all happy you're here," Danielle informed the smaller girl.

A thoughtful frown creased Bobby's lips as all the girl's turned their attention to him. "I knew I should have gone first," he muttered thinking hard for a way out. But there was nothing for him. "Um, I can freeze things."

"What a way to sum up," Rogue said with a charming little smile. A grin Bobby was only too happy to return as he reached for her hand.

"The other students?" Duncan asked. "We all get a demonstration of Jubilee's powers, but what about Sam, John? Roberto?"

"Does being a jerk count as a power?" Kitty asked with snide bitterness lacing her voice.

"I don't think so," Duncan answered.

Kitty huffed at his response. "In that case, he converts sunlight into strength. Sam projects a kinetic blast field, think of a rocket at take off, powering his supersonic flight. And John is just really strong, not as strong as Bobby on a sunny day, but still strong and a really good fighter."

Duncan glanced down, his attention drawn to the commotion below. John and Faith were seated at opposite ends of the heavy table, right hands clasped. A small grimace carved his face, remembering a few days ago when Faith had ground several bones with a forceful handshake. If he were human his hand would be in a cast right now. The grip she now held John's hand made what he experienced seem a mother's gentle coddling.

"How strong?" Duncan asked after a brief moment.

Danielle shrugged saying, "Don't know."

"The Professor's hasn't really pushed him yet," Bobby answered. "He threw a Ninja, the length of a football field once," he added with a speculative shrug.

Duncan nodded thoughtfully. A person would have to possess unprecedented strength to throw a man three hundred feet. "Must have had a sore backside for the next few days."

Bobby shook his head, a couple of short, dismissive twisting. "Not some guy dressed up as a Ninja, but a motorcycle Ninja."

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"Listen to this," Methos said. His voice was low, insistent. The perfect pitch for telling ghost stories around a camp fire. His right index finger marking his spot in the ancient text. With a single minded determination that most younger man have yet to master, the old man ignored the children behind him as he concentrated on the ones in front of him. Rupert Giles, Michael Rossi, Scott Summers, Joe Dawson, and Kurt Wagner. The five men stood on the opposite side of the glass display case.

"Quello che non può essere chiamato sarà regolato libero, getto da parte che trattiene gli anelli di trazione. Il non specificato sarà intero nell'ora finale. Poichè il ritorno disegna vicino esso si transformerà in di meno allora che era. Conoscerà il dolore mortale. Il non specificato affronterà la mano della sorte avversa e del talon della morte. Pulirà purificato."

"Well that was real pretty," Rossi grumbled. "But maybe you'd care to read it in a language the rest of us can understand."

For a moment Methos just stared at the man as if he hadn't understood what Rossi said, then, as if it just clicked in his head, Methos said, "Oh, right. Sorry about that."

Once more Giles has to wonder how old Adam Pierson truly is? That text predates Christ by more then a thousand years, closer to fifteen hundred. It was written in an obscure, rarely ever used Latin dialect. Most linguists would have to spend hours bent over reference text, pouring out possible variations, but Pierson simply read it as if he were there when it was penned.

"That which cannot be named shall be set free, cast aside restraining shackles. The unnamed will be whole in the final hour. As the return draws near it will become less then it was. It shall know Mortal pain. The unnamed shall face the hand of Dhoom and the Talon's of Death. It shall cleanse the Purified."

"But what does all that mean?" Scott asked.

"It means we have a chance boy," Methos answered with a subdued grin. "We have a chance," he repeated with intense meaning.

"I didn't hear that in there," Rossi said intruding on Methos' good humor.

"Shall know mortal pain," Giles quoted.

"Right," Methos agreed enthusiastically. "Either Glory is going to lose her divine invulnerability or—"

"She is going to suffer a mortal injury." Kurt finished.

"Exactly."

"Not that I want to rain all over your parade," Joe cut in, "but what about all the other stuff? Set free, cast aside shackles? Whole in the final hour."

"I don't know," Methos admitted. "Maybe it's just something you have to take on faith?"

Joe chuckled softly. "You preaching gospel?" He laughed again. "Now I've seen everything."

"How do we even know that's even referring to Glory?" Scott asked.

Giles wiped the lenses of his glasses down as he said, "In ancient text Glory is most generally referred to as the Unnamed or That Which Cannot Be Named."

The sound of metal scraping across the concrete drew everybody's gaze to Buffy as she leaned the monstrous hammer against the glass case. "I guess that makes me what, the Hand of Dhoom?"

"Or maybe you're the Talon's of Death," Spike suggested helpfully. Like normal there was a light, mocking quality to his voice. "And I'm the Hand of Dhoom."

"Actually," Giles began. He slipped his glasses back onto his nose and pushed them back. "It may not have anything to do with you."

"What do you mean it doesn't have anything to do with me? It always has to do with me. It's my fate, my curse. I'm the one destined—" She stopped suddenly, her eyes going glossy. "I can take this apocalypse off. Finally, a holiday!"

Spike chuckled to himself, giving his head a dismissive shake. Reading the expression on Giles face was easy for Spike; the watcher was completely exasperated with his slayer. The rest all looked at Buffy as if she had lost her mind. A not uncommon response to somebody's first encounter with Buffy.

"Buffy," Giles said with infinite patience. "You can not possibly take today for a holiday."

"But—"

"If I'm correct, it may be even more difficult to retrieve Dawn then we originally believed."

"Even more…" Buffy began, her face scrunched up as if Giles had finally lost his mind. "You do remember who it is that has Dawn?"

"You remember when Glory snatched Dawn away? The aircraft that arrived and spirited them off?" Again Giles voice convoyed his unflappable calm.

"I was unconscious," Buffy reminded Giles. Her voice was anything but calm. The tension put a strain there that was audible to those familiar with the usual carefree quality of her voice.

"Yes, well… Um." Giles coughed delicately. "After a bit of research I believe I discovered what type of aircraft it was."

"Watchers just love to dole out the information," Spike whispered loudly. "Makes 'em feel all important. Specially when they do it all slow like."

Giles glared at the vampire. He sincerely wished there was someway he could dispose of Spike, preferably in a way that didn't include Buffy finding out. He looked much better then a few hours ago. The focus of Giles' gaze shifted to Buffy, without ever leaving Spike. At the hem of her right sleeve was a small strip of white sports tape. Giles took a breath, shoved his emotions to the side. He would deal with whatever he needed to deal with after everything else was settled.

"There were no markings that I could discern, but the craft was rather distinctive and matched remarkably well with certain Latverian military aircraft—"

"Doom," Rossi muttered darkly.

"At least, it does according to British Intelligence," Giles finished.

Buffy shrugged. "Your point?"

"If Doom's interested in your sister, we've got real problems." Rossi told Buffy. There was a deathly ice cold quality to his voice.

"Hello," Buffy returned with heavy sarcasm. "Did everybody forget about Glory? God trumps Latveria…" An uncertain frown creased her brow. "Whoever Latveria is?"

"Latveria's a country," Scott informed Buffy.

"Really?" Buffy breathed out obviously surprised. "In Africa?"

"Central Europe," Kurt answered. "Victor Von Doom is a man to be feared Buffy. If he has a man inside Glory's camp you should be concerned."

"God," Buffy reminded them. "I don't care who Doom has playing in Glory's camp, unless maybe its that Hulk guy we saw the other day, the Hand of Doom is going to get stomped if they pull a coup."

"But the confusion will give us the perfect opportunity," Scott said, a devious quirk to his lips. "Combined, they may be able to repel whatever offensive we throw at them, but if their forces are divided, fighting each… Squabbling over the prize and we hit them with everything we have, we should be able to pin them down long enough for us to retrieve Dawn and mount a retreat."

"What about Glory?" Buffy asked. Scott's strategy sounded good, but everybody was still forgetting about Glory. "We may be able to pin down whatever demons and troops Glory's recruited, but she's going to be a problem."

"True," Giles replied, "Glory is our most potent obstacle. Still she may well be dealing with something she's never had to before. Pain. Once the ceremony begins, whatever immunity to physical harm she's enjoyed to this point is going to be severely inhabited, possibly even gone completely."

"Guess it's a good thing the Lady decided to bring along her nut cracker," Spike said. Giles bristled at his mocking quality which only caused the vampire to smile even more. Anytime he could get another bur under the watcher's skin Spike would happily slip it in. The same could be said about any of Buffy's friends, well maybe not Demon girl or Glenda, but Red and the Wanker. Most definitely. Course, if he wanted his relationship with the Slayer to go forward he'd have to try getting along better with the posers. Since he doubted Buffy would appreciate having her friends turned he was going to have to come up with another plan.

One that didn't involve wood chippers or Glythoh feeding rituals.

A sharp, toneless beep chimed in Rossi's ear alerting him to an urgent communiqué from his team. Before a second beep could sound Rossi slid the eyepiece in place activating his Video/Audio communicator, or VAC as most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents called them. "Go." He ordered and then listened with a quiet urgency. "Right," he listened for a moment. "Go ahead, send me what you've got and stay on them." He looked up at the group, "Where's that computer?"

"Is it time?" Buffy asked.

Rossi nodded. "She's on the move and I want everyone here to get a look at our at our opposition."

"Willow's in the back room putting in the finishing touches on the Aprilbot. I just talked with her when I came in from out back."

"I'll get her," Tara volunteered.

"You might want to fetch Xander and Anya from the basement," Giles suggested. "They've been down there for awhile now searching for something that might prove helpful."

Spike's smirk grew as he asked, "Is that what you think they've been doing?"

"Faith," Buffy began, turning to face her brunette counterpart as she struggled to keep her arm sturdy, "stop teasing the boy and put an end to that."

Faith grunted, her arm shook with the strain. It was in her voice as she asked, "Who said I was playing?"

John's bicep bulged with the effort of moving Faith's arm. She wasn't quite the waif Buffy was, and moving her arm was like trying twist hardened steel in his bare hands.

"Faith, really. Now's not—"

"The kid's strong B," Faith snarled as John slowly forced her arm down.

John sucked in air.

"Fine," Buffy said. "He's stronger then you. End it."

The dark haired slayer grunted sourly and began to push back up, lifting John's arm back up. John took in another deep breath, braced, and exerted all the pressure he could. All the progress Faith just made vanished in half the time.

"Faith," Buffy groaned impatiently.

Suddenly, Faith lifted the hem of her shirt exposing her full breast to anybody that happened to be looking her way, which was just about everyone. Silence crashed upon the Magic Box. John's eyes went wide as he stared at Faith's breast, the full globes of female flesh called to him, a siryn's irresistible call. His jaw dropped nearly to the table top, his arm slackened losing all strength.

In the next breath half a dozen shocked gasps filled the room. Roberto openly admired Faith's exposed chest while Sam quickly turned his head away. Kitty's face turned a bright red as did Rahne's, but the brunette found it impossible to tear her gaze away.

In between the two breaths, moving faster then a striking viper, Faith slammed John's knuckles to the table top. With a cat that ate the cream smile, Faith said, "I win." She gave John a wink as she lowered her top.

"That's just not proper," Rahne murmured.


	24. Chap 11: The Famous Final Scene Part 3

Chapter Eleven: One Child/The Famous Final Scene—Part Three

The tower rose above the buildings around it. They were squat structures, and dark, mostly constructed of red brick or concrete blocks, while it was a tall, metallic spire that shone with a pale gleam under the waning moon; a sleek elf compared to robust dwarves.

Glory breathed in deeply, savoring the distinct aroma rifling the air. She was leaving this mud encrusted world behind. She was going home and it was intoxicating. "You can taste it."

"What?" Carol asked. Her gaze surveyed the area, delved into all the dark corners, attempting to pierce all the shadow filled alcoves. While her senses were considerably better then the average human, she still couldn't see in the dark. Four Battledroids were roaming the area, scouring it for signs of any intruder. She had considered using a few of the demons to scout the area, but had dismissed it almost before the thought coalesced. She didn't trust any of them. It was best to keep them all under a watchful eye. She wanted as much fodder available when Buffy and her friends attacked, which they would, the demons would be her surge wall against their initial wave.

It wasn't a question of if they attacked, just a matter of when, they had no more choice in the matter then Lemmings rushing over a cliff. Their first assault was going to be brutal, an all out push to break through, but if Glory's recruits and conscriptions could hold the line, her own forces would be able to throw them back without her losing too many assets.

Both Glory and Buffy's troops would be worn down, easy pickings for Lord Doom's Battledroids. Dawn would be her prize for Lord Doom.

Carol couldn't have asked for a better location; hemmed in on three sides by squat, brick-faced buildings, it left only one viable attack option and only one exit, for most people. While Glory was busy dealing with Buffy, or vice versa, she would be well on her way back to Latveria.

The worksite was still a hotbed of activity as the finishing touches were being added to the tower. A host of Glory's scabberous demons—even after hearing their true names a dozen times she couldn't wrap her tongue around it—were acting as a buffer between Glory's reality deprived brain sucked victims and a squad of Doom's technicians and another quartet of Battledroids. Three of the droids had been pressed into grunt work, doing work that would be physically arduous for any human. The fourth was manning a sentry post only a few yards ahead.

Carol didn't like the fact that Glory's victims were present. They were a tactical liability. While she could use them, they would provide much needed fodder for the coming assault, she would prefer them being removed from the area.

As Glory and the rest drew closer, Carol noted that the crazy people, _Victims_, she reminded herself, were becoming restless, agitated by their presence. It didn't take her long to realize it was Dawn, and not Glory that they were fixated on. If it not for the fact she was counting on them to absorb a good portion of Buffy's initial assault she would have had them all sanitized before ever allowing them to get within arms length of Dawn. With a few words she ordered several of the larger demons over to bolster the ranks of Glory's scabberous minions.

Sanitizing them would be a mercy.

"Me, leaving this meat-bag infested existence in my dust. Me returning to a proper dimension after millennium in exile. Justice," Glory finally answered.

Carol smirked lightly. She knew she shouldn't antagonize Glory, not now, not with everything she was on the verge of obtaining, but she couldn't help herself as she said, "Wish I could say I'll be sorry to see you go, or that its been a pleasure having you, or that you should drop by again real soon, but I can't bring myself to lie to you."

Glory turned, took hold of Carol by her shoulders—her skin felt like it was crawling, maggots and worms slithering over her flesh—a plastic smile twisting her lips. "If it weren't for the fact that I'm going home Carol… You don't mind if I call you Carol, do you?"

Carol returned Glory's twisted smile with one of her own as she said, "Anything your divinity wishes," and winced internally with the words leaving her mouth.

"If I weren't going home, I'd rip you in half," she said in her most pleasant voice.

Sharp, bitter laughter, more of a cackle, floated out of the darkness. "Get her secured on top of the tower," Carol ordered two of the remaining Battledroids as she shrugged out of Glory's grip. An action that brought a distinct frown to the Hell god's lips.

Dawn didn't struggle against the two Battledroids, though she did sulk, in-between shooting death glares at Glory and Carol, not that either of them noticed. Actively resisting the droids would have accomplished nothing; they were cold, emotionless hunks of steel nothing at all like the Buffybot.

Besides, she had to trust that Carol had to have some sort of plan. Not that she found that alternative all that appealing. Still, being kept by Victor Von Doom was infinitely preferable to destroying the multiverse.

Buffy's sudden appearance would be even more welcomed, heck she wouldn't even complain about all the chores Buffy made her do. _Not for awhile_, she hedged to herself as her escorts escorted her up the first few steps of the tower.

A steady click schrarp. Click schrarp, click schrarp sound, like tapping metal underpinned the laughter. "Get in position," Carol ordered. Her voice sharp, full of anticipation. It carried well to everyone despite being little more then a whisper.

The demons quickly organized themselves, Merk and the rest of his fellow minions began arranging the insane humans into a protective wall in front of the combat troops. At least, that had been the plan. They milled about, wondering where they would when nobody was actually holding them in place.

A lone figure, hazy and indistinct, coalesced out of the darkness. They seemed to be leaning heavily on some type of cane, using it like a paddle, rowing himself forward.

"Well lookie here," Glory called cheerfully. She sounded almost relieved. "If it isn't my favorite pincushion come to see me off. Now how sweat is that?"

Nick laughed, a robust if somewhat disquieting chuckle of someone who perhaps isn't in full possession of his facilities. He came to a stop a dozen feet in front of them, placed his unusual looking cane in front of him, rested both hands on the knob and leaned into it, toward them.

Carol narrowed her eyes slightly as she realized he was leaning on a single edge sword, a katana if she wasn't mistaken.

For several long moments, Wolfe stared at Glory with unwavering eyes before he suddenly spoke. "Know a secret," he said with deep, hidden meaning. "Know a secret about you." Making his announcement Nick's head swiveled up. His eyes following…

Carol was almost positive he was watching Dawn as she climbed the tower, only that would be impossible. With how far away they were. At this distance nobody could see anything within the lattice worked steel.

Glory's smile seemed more forced now then a moment before. "He's as crazy as the rest of them," Carol said disdainfully. Once he had been a good man, strong and courageous. Now though, the only thing he would be good for is fodder to choke up the field.

"What secret could you possibly know?" Glory demanded. "You piece of putrid rotting meat."

"You won't like it," Nick answered as his gaze returned to Glory. "Won't like it one bit," he taunted.

In a blink, almost too fast for Carol to follow, Glory had Nick by the throat, easily holding him off the ground. "Want to know what I don't like? Christmas, snow, rain at midnight, sweltering heat, oceans, everything about this putrid, rotting, disease infested dimen—"

"The courtroom was adjourned…" His voice was halting, as if unsure of what he was saying, unsure of what it meant, but his first word stopped Glory and he only seemed to gain courage as he continued. "…No verdict was returned as the flames climbed high into the night to light the sacrificial rite. I saw Satan laughing with delight while Lenin read a book on Marx and the quartet sang dirges in the dark, the day the music died and the dawn won't ever shine for you." The last almost sounded a personal taunt.

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"It was not proper," Rahne said suddenly as the troop of would be heroes made their way towards… No one was exactly sure what they where rushing towards, other then the greatest struggle any of them had ever faced in their young lives.

It wasn't the first time Rahne had stated that observation, and everyone was sure it wouldn't be the last. Rahne made sure to keep her voice quiet having been reprimanded once already when her words carried too far. "To expose yourself so, just so you can win a match."

"I didn't mind," Roberto answered. His smile was extremely satisfied as he thought back. Faith's weren't the first breast he's seen, but they definitely ranked in his top ten.

Faith smiled benignly at the young girl's comment. If anybody else had made it Faith was sure she would've heard disdain and scorn in their voice… But Rahne, it wasn't a condemnation. Faith didn't know what it was, but she knew it wasn't that.

John grunted sourly at Roberto's comment, the Brazilian aristocrat always acted like the universe revolved around him. If, for some unknown reason, he thought the focus was shifting away from you could be sure he would find a way to pull it back to him. It was just his way.

And Faith, she was a handful. All brass and balls. She was strong, especially for a girl. Still… "If you hadn't cheated—"

"Used my natural endowments to achieve a desired goal," Faith cut in.

John's scowl deepened at the interruption. Rude could be added into her list of endearing qualities, if she had any? "Cheated."

"Tomato, Tomoto," Roberto interjected. He couldn't help but get a little dig in on his friend.

Faith barely suppressed her smirk. Tweaking the big Indian whenever she had the chance was the most fun she's had since first arriving in Sunnydale and getting under Buffy's skin. Proudstar was almost as condescending as his Brazilian teammate, he just didn't hid it nearly as well; behind a façade of high priced sophistication. Faith was familiar with the type; she spent most of her young life growing up around it.

"A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do," she said after a moment. "Besides, you got to be prepared for the unexpected…" She shrugged, her face losing a little of its animation. "…or some such crap." A frowned creased her lips. Her watcher told her that, her first watcher, but then Kakistos had taken them both by surprise.

Suddenly Rossi was among them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Even Faith was thrown off by his presence. She wondered just what type of training S.H.I.E.L.D. agents received. He took in each of them with a seasoned eye, as if passing judgment. If he was he surely found them lacking.

"If you guys want to give our position away, I'm fairly sure I could arrange for a bullhorn that you all can pass around when you want to say something witty. Maybe then people wouldn't hear you three blocks over." His entire speech was given in a guttural whisper that didn't carry more then ten feet.

"Why don't you cut them a little slack? They're just kids." Faith was surprised that it was Xander who just stuck his neck out for them… For her.

Rossi graced Harris with a thin smile. "Mr. Harris—"

"Xander," Xander cut in.

Rossi took a calming breath before starting again. "Xander—"

"Whenever someone says Mr. Harris around me, I develop this annoying tick, gets so bad, sometimes I just want to gouge my own eyes out," Xander explained despite Rossi's sweltering glare.

"That you've done the whole apocalypse thing, and though sheer dumb luck rather then any actual skill, manage to avert them. Thank you, I really appreciate having a world to stand on when I give these little speeches, but now that the professionals are here—"

"I'll take dumb luck over professional skill any day," Faith said. Her tone pulled Rossi's attention away from Xander. She matched his glare with an unwavering gaze.

"Marcels to Rossi, have secured high ground. Repeat, Marcels to Rossi, have secured high ground. Over."

Rossi activated the VAC by locking the eye piece into place, the clear screen darkened immediately. "How hot is the zone? Over." Rossi inquired as he began to make his way toward the front of the caravan.

"Extremely. Five different breeds of HSTs. Main participants are present as well. Second Female, Doom's enforcer most likely, plus a squad of multi-functional androids. There're a handful of techies and what appears to be twenty to twenty-five escape mental patients. Over."

Only Faith heard the last part of the conversation, but she wasn't paying attention to Rossi. "Xan," she called out quickly. Her voice sounded shrill to her own ears, like some over eager, pimple face delivery boy who just walked into a true to life hustler fantasy. It was a sound she definitely didn't like.

Xander could feel muscles stiffen, his fist clenched, knuckles popping as everything felt like it's been compressed, like his body doesn't fit right anymore. The last time he felt like this was senior year, when he found out how close Faith had come to killing Willow.

"Thanks," she said simply.

The single word sounded like an alien language to him. He couldn't believe it had come out of her mouth, couldn't believe she even knew what the word meant. "I didn't do it for you," his words were as stiff as his back.

Faith flinched. It was like having Buffy slap her across the face, only worse. She had never done anything to Xander, other then that choking incident, but she doubted he was still holding that against her. She was grateful he wasn't looking at her, didn't see her reaction to his words, how much they hurt.

With an unconscious ease, that would have terrified her if she were aware it was happening, pain stoked ambers that have been lying dormant these past few years and a searing blaze roared to life in her gut. Her first instinct was to lash out, inflict greater pain then she received, give as good as she got, better then she got. Make sure they never messed with her again.

A few years ago, her fist would have done the talking for her. It was quick and easy and people generally didn't need to have a second lesson. Only she had grown up a little, not much, but maybe just enough that she didn't end back where she had been.

"I know," she said as she strode past him. Her shorter legs somehow outdistancing his longer stride. It was a lie, but he didn't need to know that.

"You hurt her feelings," Rahne said from Xander's side.

Xander snorted, a very disturbing sound to the young girl's sensitive ears. "Faith doesn't have feelings," he said as Rahne outdistanced him as well. "She's murderous scum that…" He fell silent as a large hand draped itself over his shoulder.

Looking up, Xander eyed John Proudstar with skepticism. He heard of his arm wrestling match with Faith, that he was winning until Faith flashed her tit. "Lay off the strawberry, she's like the little sister most of us wished we had. If you make her hurt you, I'll hurt you."

"If you don't want your friend hurt, keep her away from Faith. She's a psychotic murderer that doesn't know what a friend is."

John shrugged. "We all have problems."

Xander wasn't sure what to make of Proudstar. The youth didn't strike him as the impassive, roll with the punches type of guy. He seemed more the type to confront things head, jump to conclusions with nothing more then idle speculation to go on. Xander couldn't understand why he was taking Faith's side.

Rossi finished listening to Marcels' report. He was an excellent agent, almost able to paint a picture as he described how Glory had her troops deployed. He could see the steel tower two androids were securing Dawn to. It looked a lot like a beefed up radio antenna, with a cat walk ninety feet up, with some type of alter near the far end. He hadn't meant Buffy's sister yet, and if things went bad he never would.

"Sir," Garis' voice cut through Marcels' monologue. There was an urgency that silenced everyone else. A second stretch by, seemed to take forever to tick on before Garis spoke up saying, "Wolfe just strolled up the street—"

"What?" Rossi snapped coming to a sudden stop in the middle of the group.

Wolfe was standing in the middle of the street, outside the large construction pit that contained the tower. Glory stood a few feet in front of him, and she wasn't happy about seeing him. She was definitely a looker, made most women appear to be as appealing as a leper colony, but looking at her made his skin crawl. He couldn't wait to find out what it would be like face to face.

Just behind Glory was another woman, the Hand of Doom, she seemed familiar somehow, but he hadn't been able to good visual on her. It was almost like she had some inkling that people were watching her. That, or he was letting his imagination get the better of him.

He wished these things came with parabolic microphones. That pair appeared to be having a rather intense conversation, what he wouldn't give to be a fly on that wall.

"How the hell did he get past your perimeter, were you sleeping or simply incompetent?"

"He just appeared in the middle of the street," Garis spat back angrily.

Rossi ground his teeth at the situation unfolding through the single lens display screen, it was no win. "Maintain position," he ordered. His voice sounded as if it was carved from a glacier. "Under no circumstances are you to break cover." He could almost feel their grumbling. They didn't like it and he couldn't blame them. If he was on their side of the fence he would have been the first one to tell command to take a flying hump and figure away around the order.

A blue head bobbing amongst the lead group caught Rossi's eye. There were always ways to circumvent orders. Even his own.

"He broke into a quick trot. "Just hold position. Reinforcements will be there…"

He forced his way between Buffy and Spike before he realized who it was he was forcing his way between. The fact that they allowed him through—Spike did grumble a bit—considering how touchy feely the pair had become recently surprised him. While they weren't clasping hands, their hands were never far away either, always within touching distance.

It was great when two people could find love; find each other, especially under such trying circumstances. People had to be ready to grab whatever they could get because you never knew when the world would rip it away from you.

Rossi brought them up to a stop with the expediency of stopping in front of them. For an instant he was positive they were just going to trample right over him, but the group ground to a halt, which brought everyone else to a stop.

Logan didn't look happy, but he almost never looked happy. Only now there were quite a few faces that looked equally displeased.

"A reason you're playing speed bump?" Spike inquired sounding almost polite. Anybody that knew him, knew what to listen for, would easily pick up on the tension in his tone, and know he was only moments from ripping a throat out. The pounce little bunger reminded him of Riley and the rest of his goose stepping fascist. Spike could admit Rossi was nothing like the corn bred Nazi, but he was a soldier and for Spike that was more then enough reason to hate the man.

Rossi heard and ignored Spike's bristle. He had taken out tougher men in his day then a rebellious Brit with a bloated cockney accent acting tough to woe a girl. "How many people can you teleport?" He demanded of Kurt. There would be time enough later to berate himself for not thinking of it sooner. _If there is a later_, the thought tickled the back of his mind with a feather light touch.

Kurt blinked, startled by Rossi's intensity. "Three, maybe four. I've never had much—"

"How far?" Rossi cut him off. He didn't have time for long explanations.

"A mile and half… two?" Kurt said with an uncertain shrug. He really didn't have an idea what his limits were, he's never tested himself.

Rossi nodded, it was all he needed to hear. "Scott, pick your team. Three men. Wolfe's already at the site—"

"What?" Amanda's voice was sharp with unspoken accusation. The only thing that kept it from being more was Methos' restraining hand.

Kurt shook his head as he said, "I can't teleport to a place I've never seen. I could land low, too high. Teleporting inside something, I think that would be a very messy way to die."

"So you need to see where you're going?"

"Ja," Kurt answered.

Without the slightest hesitation Rossi plucked his VAC from his head. "Don't move. It isn't going to be a perfect fit, but it'll give you what you need."

"Buffy, Cannonball… You're with me," Scott said. He caught Logan's eye and said, "Out of everyone here she's the only one we're sure can hold their own against Glory."

Buffy eyed Sam as he stepped forward. "Cannonball," she murmured.

"Did I say anything?" Logan asked.

"Code name," Sam said answering her almost question. "So we don't go shouting each other's real name. Scott's is Cyclops."

Scott snorted as he said, "Please."

A petulant frown turned the corner of her lips down as she asked, "How come I don't get a codename?" Of no one in particular.

"You can go with Slayer," Spike suggested helpfully.

Buffy's frown turned serious. From behind Spike, Faith said, "Not the only Slayer," at the same time Buffy mumbled, "So not what I want to be known as."

Both Spike and Faith looked at her. Buffy could feel their eyes on her, but she really couldn't explain it. Didn't want to explain anything right that moment. Only their eyes wouldn't shut up.

"Unglaublich," Kurt exploded. "Überraschen. Mein Gott, wie mögliches dieses ist?" He asked forgetting that most of the people present didn't speak any German.

"Later," Rossi said as he finished securing the headpiece. "It's not great, but it'll do."

"Ready?" Scott asked, his gaze shifting from Sam to Buffy. Not that anyone could see his intense brown eyes. The three gathered around Kurt, moved close to each other. "Nightcrawler."

Kurt draped his right arm across Buffy's shoulders and clasped Sam's left shoulder. Sam mirrored the gesture grabbing hold of Kurt's right shoulder while Buffy wrapped one arm around Kurt's waist and the other around Sam's.

Glancing down at Buffy, Kurt apologized saying, "Sorry."

"For what?" Buffy asked looking up at Kurt.

"The—" A loud bamf filled the air, a grey cloud of smoke, thick as pea soup fog hung off the ground. It smelt as if somebody just lit a sulfur factory on fire.

More then a few people cursed Kurt, and a large handful coughed, covering their mouth and nose as they hastily tried to distance themselves from the odor.

Rossi ignored the smoke as his gaze roved over the group. "Logan, Faith, Spike, Thunderbird…" he couldn't believe he was about to say this name. "…April." The five of them raced ahead, seeming to go from zero to sixty in a time that would put high performance race cars to shame. Spike had managed to put half a meter between him and the closest person, but Logan was closing the distance while the other three pushed themselves hard not to be left behind.

April was a major concern; he wanted to know where these people got their hands on a human looking android. It was cutting edge technology; the type of thing only megalomaniacs like Doom, Luther, and Richards delved into. And if anybody tried to tell him Stark's private body guard, Iron Man, was anything more then a sophisticated Android, he would have to introduce them to the business end of his sidearm.

Only all their androids looked like androids. It was easy to tell they were machines. This thing looked human, it acted human, one that had been hit on the head a few too many times. _Or needed to get back on her meds_. If he hadn't seen them reprogram her he wouldn't have known it wasn't human. Now all he had to do was figure out where it had come from. It was clear as day none of the bumbling fools around here made the damn thing.

"Remember what we're here for, remember your assignments. Double time people. Move it, Move, Move." Rossi shouted at the end, his voice like a drum driving them. Amanda glared at Rossi as she passed; her gaze was as sharp as the sword tucked under her coat and carried all the accusations in the world.

Rossi dealt with it the same way he was dealing with a lot of things recently. He ignored it, instead grabbing Duncan just below the bicep. His eyes were as hard as any he's ever seen. Neither man said anything. They both understood what was at stake, what was needed. Duncan shrugged out of Rossi's grip and easily caught up with the rest.

Rossi spotted the group of people he was looking for. Buffy's friends Willow, Tara, Xander, Anya, and the Watcher, Rupert Giles. "You guys know your part?"

"We've only been over it a thousand times," Anya snipped.

The sarcasm rolled off Rossi. He locked eyes with Willow. At times the green eye girl looked completely out of her depth, but other times, like now, there was a glimmer in those green eyes. A spark of something dark. Still he had to be sure. "And you're positive that nothing will be able to get out?"

Her smile had a slightly vicious curve to it. "Once that barrier goes up, it'll take an act of God to bring it down."

Rossi wasn't so sure. But if they could keep the conflict contained, he would count it a minor blessing. He still couldn't help the parting shot he left with, "According to you people, there's one on hand."


	25. Chap 11: The Famous Final Scene Part 4

Chapter Eleven: One Child/The Famous Final Scene—Part Four

"The courtroom was adjourned. No verdict was returned. As the flames high into the night, to light the sacrificial rite. I saw Satan laughing with delight. While Lenin read a book on Marx. The quartet practiced in the park, and we sang dirges in the dark. The day the music died."

Glory stared at Wolfe as if he were insane, which in the very limited scope of the word, he was. The human mind, as it was presently constituted, could no more glimpse the infinite knowledge of the universe, all its myriad secrets, and not become unhinged.

For most humans such an occurrence is infinitely unlikely. While every being born possesses the potential, few ever truly grasp what lies hidden, buried deep in their core. They simply cannot fathom the heights to which they can ascend. They live their simple mundane lives, scurrying about, shouting in their tiny voices as they attempt to carve out a happy little existence in their microcosm.

Born. Breed. Die. Recycle and repeat.

That is just the way it is for most humans. They do not aspire to anything greater then their own messy lives.

Nick Wolfe isn't like the vast majority of humans. He did not have parents in the normal sense of the word. He was raised by good people, a loving mother and father who taught him right from wrong.

Those people had nothing to do with his creation, his conception. No human did. Instead of being born in the standard way, Nick Wolfe, like all Immortals since time beyond measure, was spun out by a semi-sentient construct known only as the Key, a device designed to lock dimensional walls in place, keep the universe from slipping back into the primordial chaos it emerged from.

The Key wasn't a living thing, not as flesh and blood creatures reckon things. It was a machine, created for a simple function, but it was sentient in a sense. It knew there would come a day when some would wish to do it harm, unmake the order it had been created to maintain, so it had created warriors, protectors, fashioned them after the humans who inhabited the world it had been hidden upon. Filled them with all the knowledge it held, the knowledge of the universe.

Only, its children were flawed, driven insane by their knowledge. It was in that moment the Key realized its mistake. Humans' even its Immortal humans, needed to grow, to learn. So that was what the Key had done, made its humans the same as newborn humans and placed them among the mortals with a desire to seek it out, to serve it, protect it.

This arrangement served the Key well for many years, but eventually its children were subverted, corrupted by their humanness; greed, love, anger, desire, envy—all that made them human—filled them. Made it easy for an Old One to twist them.

The Key foresaw its own destruction and removed itself from danger, hiding itself away where none could find it. Still, it couldn't abandon its children, leave them alone, isolated in the world. Every year more Immortals were cast into the world, but all too soon the game was born and the first of its children died.

Down through the centuries they moved, hiding among the mortals. Some living through long years, others burning brightly, flashing brilliantly, but all too briefly. For every life snuffed two more were spun out.

Until Now.

There would never be another Immortal spun from the Key, its time had finally come to a close.

In its place had come Dawn Summers. Created by a group of well intentioned Monks whose sole purpose was saving the world from Glory, they had taken the Key and given it humanity… Flesh and blood, a life, a family, memories.

Nick knew this, saw it all flash through his mind the instant he glanced up at the pinnacle of the Tower. Dawn was up there, shackled in place.

He wished he could counsel her, let her know it was all going to be all right, that it was going to work out.

Only he couldn't

The next few hours were murky. So much, so many possible outcomes it was all so confusing. The only thing he knew for sure was…

"You're not," he began in a solemn voice as he turned to his gaze back to Glory, "going to see the morning sun." He smiled a vicious grin. "You'll be dead before first light."

Glory growled, "I'm going to destroy you once and for all," as she rushed forward in a blur. Her left fist punched a hole through the right side of his chest as she grabbed hold of his throat.

A loud report thundered, as a reedy mist of hazy gray smoke billowed up and out. "…Nausea…" A familiar voice said, the thick German accent hung heavy in the wispy air.

Buffy doubled over as she dropped to one knee and planted her right fist in the hard pavement. She heaved, several times, but nothing came up. Her knuckles were white as slim fingers strangled the haft of the Troll Hammer and she was slightly amazed the worn oak didn't splinter between her fingers.

Struggling to regain her composure, Buffy looked up and was more then a little annoyed to see everybody else was rearing to go.

"It can take…"

"Cannonball," Scott began using Sam's code name. His voice was razor sharp and Buffy knew that he got it.

"You," Glory hissed savagely.

Buffy had the distinct feeling, that for once, the Hellgod's anger wasn't directed at her. There was a sudden crack, like dry twig snapping.

Sam's body tensed, he seemed to be flexing every single muscle all at once. "On it Cyke," he said a bare moment before his lower body vanished; sheathed, encased, something…

Wolfe's limp body crashed into Kurt with a boneless quality. The pair went down in a tangled heap.

…Buffy wasn't sure what or how, only that it was. His legs looked like a space shuttle lift off in miniature. A gout of flame billowed and the next moment Sam blasted off, careened wildly for an agonizingly long beat before he stabilized an instant before slamming into Glory like a runaway comet, dislocating her from the ground.

Scott stared at the assembled mass of demons before him. From out of his visor a crimson beam of pure force lanced out. It started no bigger then the slit in his visor, the thickness of a day-planner, widening and thickening until it was a little bigger then a double-decker bus by the time it bowled over the host facing them. He made sure not to target any of the androids, there was no way to tell what their capabilities were and he had little desire to learn they could absorb kinetic energy.

"He needs to get out of there," Buffy said with deep concern in her voice as she surged back to her feet. She reached down, grabbed Kurt around his bicep and hefted him to his feet.

Kurt stared down at Wolfe as he muttered, "He's dead."

"He's Immortal, I've heard they do that from time to time," Buffy said, her voice humorless as she watched Sam and Glory. The pair twisted wildly for a moment as they rocketed away, crashing through the wall of an abandoned factory. "Sam's," Buffy snarled as she turned Kurt towards her, "got to get out…"

Suddenly Sam blasted through the factory roof, the lower half of his body was still sheathed in his kinetic blast field, but his head was thrown back and the jet of flames were beginning to putter out. A thunderous boom, a sound like the hand of god pounding a steel drum, crashed around them. The building began to crumple in upon itself as a wall of dust and debris blow out the windows.

"Kurt!" Scott shouted.

"Got…" Kurt vanished with a soft pop, leaving behind a cloud of sulfurous smelling grey smoke. He reappeared in Sam's path. "… him," he finished latching onto Sam as he reached the top of his trajectory. "Ruhen…" He vanished and reappeared with only a fraction of a fraction of a second between the two events. "…Sie leicht."

"Lord," Sam breathed out while trying to remain upright, "she can sure hit hard for a girl. Feels like I just slammed full tilt into the side of a mountain. More like the mountain fell on me."

With a deep rumble the factory collapsed upon itself. A large debris cloud bloomed around it. "Mein Gott," Kurt whispered. "Least we don't have to worry about her now," he observed warily.

Buffy growled, low in the pit of her stomach as she said, "What don't you people get? Glory ain't some low rent mutant, she isn't some abnormally strong freakazoid. She's a bonafide, card carrying, dues paying God. She's dropped buildings on herself before, they slow her down but they don't stop her." She glared at Sam. "You're lucky to be alive," she said slowly.

"Walk away, while you're able." Scott ordered the gathered horde. Most of the demons were just beginning to climb back to their feet, those that had been knocked over. Quite a few hadn't, mostly the Fyrals and a couple even larger that she didn't recognize.

Of the nine different species of demon she didn't recognize five, but the four she did, left her with a sour taste in the pit of her stomach. She didn't know much about Mohra demons except that shattering the gem in their forehead would destroy them. That was what Angel had done, that time one of them showed up on his doorstep right after Thanksgiving, while she was there telling him to stay out of her life, that he couldn't just pop back up whenever it suited him. Three of them, with half a dozen Sisters of Jhe, and ten Fyral demons were a handful all on their own.

Fyral demons were immensely strong, and they had paralyzing boogers if Spike was to be believed. Her only measuring stick against their kind came when Giles had been transformed into one by his once best friend turned arch nemesis, Ethan Rayne. That had been a tough fight, but Buffy suspected true Fyral demons, accustomed to what they were would be more of a challenge.

The Sisters of Jhe she's faced before and had hoped to never see again. One of them was tough enough, six of them… She had no idea how they were going to deal with six of them.

Lagos' big brothers were there as well. Even after two years she still didn't know if Lagos was suppose to be an individual name, a species name, a clan name, or some combination of the three. What she knew was they didn't look happy to see her, but in her experience no demon ever looked happy. Most of the time she figured it had something to do with skin condition. Nobody could be happy with skin that mottled, or was all dry and flakey, or slick and slimy, or of such drab colors.

Still, she couldn't figure out if Scott was deliberately trying to rile them up. She didn't think the man was stupid, but pissing off a bunch of demons, it wasn't exactly what she would call smart.

"Brave talk, for someone out numbered ten…" Carol began as she studied the small group. She had the feeling this was nothing more then an advance strike group, but that begged the question why? Dawn was the obvious answer, but they had yet to make a move for her. Why make a move now and expose themselves… give information on themselves away? It wasn't strategic.

Wagner and the Summers girl were known entities in this conflict. The boy was a complete unknown; that he disposed of Glory so quickly was impressive and gave her cause to be concerned. Cyclops was the X-Men's Field Marshal and his powers were well documented, but his presence here was unexpected. It also meant other X-Men could be on their way even now. Why throw away such an edge?

For a quick hit against Glory? Carol didn't think so, but that would indicate Wolfe was the objective. Why would they throw away a tactical advantage for a grandstand gesture to save Wolfe…? How had they even known Wolfe was in danger?

Everything swirled in her head until it clicked in place.

"Obviously you're not alone," she stated flatly as her gaze grazed the rooftops of nearby buildings. They were up there. She didn't know where but she knew they were.

"We're here for the girl, nothing else. If you try to stop us… We'll be forced to use lethal force." His voice carried, his words carrying a note of resigned sadness, but a solid conviction as well. While he may not relish the idea of killing, it wouldn't prevent him from carrying out his promise.

"The Key," Carol began but stopped as she cast a clinical eye on Buffy. An easy smile, almost friendly, creased her lips. "Pardon, Dawn Summers, has been granted a provincial citizenship to Latveria by Lord Doom."

"Latveria doesn't have any laws against recreational drugs?" Buffy questioned hoping to keep her tone even. It was hard as the woman's voice grated on her, set her blood to seething.

Carol's features turned serious and she said, "Your sister, Dawn, asked for, and was granted asylum by Lord Victor Von Doom."

Buffy fumed at the woman's words but managed to hold her tongue. The longer she kept the woman talking the closer reinforcements got. She could feel Logan, Faith and Spike racing towards her at a clip few others could match, but she was sure a couple more were with them.

If she stretched her awareness to its maximum she could just feel Willow and the others and knew they were making as good time as they could. They didn't possess any super powers yet they were coming as fast as humanly possible.

"I'm sure a temporary visa could be arranged for you Ms. Summers. You'd find Latveria very pleasant, relaxing. You could think of it as a vacation."

"The only way Dawn's leaving this country," Buffy hissed at Carol, "is over my dead body."

Carol sighed softly, almost sadly. "That's a shame, Lord Doom was truly looking forward to meeting you. But if that's the way you feel…" She raised her hand.

A high pitched whistle from above pulled everyone's attention up. At first Buffy didn't see anything, but then her gaze shifted above Dawn and her eyes widened at the man standing stoically in the air twenty feet above her sister. A deep red form fitting body suit accentuated a lean, well muscled frame. Dark slashes ran up the outside of each leg and disappeared under his folded arms. A dark patch circled each eye giving him a strange, raccoon like face.

"The fuck is he doing here?" Carol whispered. Deadpool was the highest paid mercenary on the open market for a reason. He had a reputation for accomplishing the impossible, a knack for surviving the unsurvivable.

He never failed.

He never gave up, never stopped. In that regard he was a lot like the Terminator.

She would've called him in except for one detrimental factor. He was clinically insane, not to mention psychotic and totally unpredictable.

"I'm good at what I do," Wade said suddenly, conversationally. "The best. Specially since Wolverine went AWOL and Creed went—No, Creed's always been a blood thirsty whack job. But there I was, the best Merc in the continent, currently unemployed, enjoying the downtime, watching my all time favorite channel, 616. Sort of like CNN… CNN for Mercs like me. All the coolest gadgets, the latest news. And what did my little eyes happen to spy?"

He paused for a beat, a very short beat before answering his own question. "Why, it was you guys gearing up for a nice big battle royal, bringing in talent from all over the world, but instead of going out, hiring yourselves hard working Mercs, like me you bring in Doom and the X-Men… And, demons."

With a slight shake of his head Wade said, "Now just to review a little; Doom is country, The X-Men, idealistic fools, and demons… Well, they're just sort of like people with really bad skin conditions. And all the while, you got me babe, the best Merc out there, sitting on the sideline and I say to myself, Self, something's wrong with this picture, people hire Creed but nobody even checks my references. Then it hits me, I obviously haven't been diligent in passing out my business cards. So I figured I'd drop by and hand out a few."

Unfolding his arms revealed an Uzi in each hand. In one smooth motion he opened fire on everyone below. "Don't be bashful," he shouted at them, an insane glee bubbling in his voice, as he took several steps forward. Reaching the curve in the invisible dome he slid down the side. "Take a couple, they're small."

Buffy reacted instinctively as she tackled Scott to the ground. Out of every possible scenario she imagined, this wasn't anywhere on her list. She was sort of glad life wasn't getting too predictable. She didn't give any thought that she might be just as crazy as the guy shooting at her.

Behind her she heard Sam's blast field kick in, the dull roar swallowed the soft bamf of Kurt teleporting but did nothing to cover the sulfuric stench.

She looked up, quickly bouncing to her feet, in time to see a hail of bullets cascade into the blonde. Buffy knew they hit the woman. Her clothes were being shredded by the high velocity projectiles. "This isn't good," Buffy muttered seeing the irritation smolder in Carol's eyes.

"Somebody bring me Deadpool's head," Carol ordered. Demons, who only moments before would have sneered at any command given them by a human suddenly found themselves clamoring to obey.

High powered rounds slammed into a pair of Fyral demons and while both staggered from the impact, neither went down. Another bullet sliced through a Mohra's chest blowing out a large hole. The wound began to close incredibly fast.

Carol felt a twinge of grudging respect for Buffy as the tiny blonde raced ahead, weaving to avoid the sporadic gunfire Deadpool was spraying across the impromptu battle field. One of the large demons, it was nearly a picture of a Greek minotaur, massive upper body covered in coarse fur and massive muscles, thick arms, that made the heavy axe in its hands look a toy. Its head, face possessed faint human characteristic softening its prominently bullish features.

Carol didn't have any idea about its name, individual or species, didn't care either. It was fodder and that was all. It, with its companion two step behind rushed the Slayer with a pair of howling roars, wickedly curved battle axes poised to strike, to cleave the porcelain frail girl.

Scott cut the beam off, his gaze instantly refocused on her, "Dodge this," he growled unleashing a short pulse of crimson force. It started off pencil thin by a foot out it was the size of a two story house cutting a swath in the ground.

Buffy glided inside the demons guard as the axe fell. The troll hammer shot up, the ancient head smashed into the demon's jaw, snapping the beast's head back with stunning force.

The demon flipped up and over landing flat on its face as Buffy darted forward. She dived avoiding the deadly arc of the demon's axe; rolled, came up to a knee, and pivoted driving the hammer into its knee with bone shattering force. It howled as the joint buckled and Buffy swung back around, the hammer screaming for the creature.

The creature managed to get its axe up in time, staving off death, at least momentarily. Buffy quickly twirled the weapons, interlocking the axe blade on the hammer's haft.

A crimson beam cut a path to her right as Buffy rose to her feet with a savage spin jerk the axe out of the demon's hands. She snatched the haft of axe out of air as she continued her tight spin, quickly disentangled the weapons a bare moment before she completed her spin and the axe severed its former owner's head from its shoulders.

Without stopping she quickly dived behind the corpse and used the massive body as a shield as rounds of ammo slammed into its body. For once Buffy was glad of her diminutive stature, headless and on its knees she only had to duck a little.

With a little whoop, Deadpool hit the ground and dove away avoiding the sniper fire that tore chunks out of the pavement. He loved snipers, they made days like today all that more interesting. He came up, Uzis ready, and quickly began strafing the rooftops of the nearby building were he suspected the snipers were positioned.

He had teleported in only a few moments before that crazy guy staggered up the road and goaded Glory into killing him. He found himself respecting the man for that.

He left Mike with explicit instructions not to get involved in the coming chaos, good support staff was hard to come by and he already sort of regretted killing David, and teleported above the tower. He had noticed something different about the area and took a chance.

He dropped twenty feet or so before he collided with a spongy surface. He couldn't see anything but he could feel it. Whatever it was felt a lot like a thick rubber mat and he wondered what it was for.

Then he saw the other four teleport in, and a sudden thought bubbled through his head. A shield might be just the recipe to keep a teleporter out, maybe? He wasn't about to take that risk.

He sat and watched the proceedings for a few minutes when things started off with such a kick, but after a few sharp volleys they settled in to lob a few lazy returns back and forth.

The word boring couldn't get out of his mouth fast enough. Things needed to be spiced up, so that was what he did. The slide down the side of the bubble had been a rush, the surface had been springing enough, with just enough give to slow him down and keep him from becoming a grease smear.

Not that he was too worried about that, his healing factor, with one or two minor draw backs was second to none… Well there was Logan and Creed, but other then them, and maybe one or two others, his healing factor was second to none.

He slipped his Uzis into specialized holsters and surveyed the field. The little blonde was good, she moved with grace and deceptive power and possessed a ruthlessly efficient brutality.

An entire host of demons stood between him and her. That didn't faze Deadpool; if it bled he was confident in his ability to kill it. Twin Katana seemed to just appear in his hands and a flash of a second later he was in the midst of the large Fyral demons.

A savage roar pulled Buffy's gaze upward where a Fyral demon screamed toward the hard pavement. The demon hit with a bone shuddering impact that crumpled pavement. It groaned groggily, but began to push itself back up. With the gunfire off her for the moment, Buffy let the corpse go; it fell to the ground with a wet sort of noise that dead things make.

For the first time in hours, days, Buffy finally felt comfortable. This is what she was good at, it was what she knew. Let somebody else lead, take charge, take responsibility when everything fell to pot in a Gucci handbag. She could lead, formulate plans and everything, and has on any number of occasions, but she liked it so much better when nobody was looking toward her for leadership and she could just be who she was meant to be.

With a serene sort of expression Buffy raised the Olaf's hammer and drove it into the back of the Fyral demon's skull, turning the cranium to mush.

Sam picked a target, one of the large bulky demons that gunfire was having very little affect on, and blasted off. It was always a rush to fly, to feel the blast of air against his face as he rocketed above the ground. It passed underneath him so quickly, only an instant passed before he slammed into the Fyral demon with a crushing impact.

It was a solid creature, but after tackling Glory earlier the demon felt like he hit a marshmallow. Altering his trajectory was always tricky for him, but he managed it relatively well this time as he spiraled upward. The creature spit on him or sneezed, Sam wasn't sure which or if it supposed to do something. If it was his blast field protected him from the effects.

At a hundred and fifty feet Sam released the demon, waited another beat and shut off his blast field, it was the only way he could effect radical changes in his direction. Free falling for a moment Sam picked out another target, one of the androids, straightened out and ignited his kinetic blast field.

Clouds of grey smoke began to pop up all over as Kurt started removing Glory's victims, depositing them inside a rundown warehouse. What he called clearing out the clutter. It would have been just as easy to remove the demons, possibly an android or two but that would leave completely defenseless victims of Glory in harm's way, which was something he was unwilling to do.

The Sister of Jhe slipped around the crimson beam Scott unleashed. _Fine_, Scott snarled in his head and swung the beam to the left. The Sister ducked underneath and rolled back the other way.

"Detain the Slayer and her companions," Carol instructed the troop of androids. "If the demons start to step out of line, put them down."

The factory rubble began to groan and rumble before it exploded upwards like a massive geyser, chunks of concrete and steel rained down in a deadly shower.

"There's a minor detail that requires my attention," Carol informed the androids, then paused briefly as she wondered why. A second shockwave erupted sending another shower of debris arching high into the air.

A spark of fear gnawed at her gut. She knew Glory was powerful; the Hellgod reveled in her vast strength, luxuriated in her invulnerability. It was Glory's depravity that worried Carol.

She had accepted the fact that her life could be snuffed out a long time ago. That was life as a soldier, her fate had always been held in the hands of others, to be thrown away on a whim.

It was that other thing Glory did that had Carol twisted inside. There was no way she was going to spend her remaining days as a nut, locked away in some asylum.

The size of a small meteor, Sam closed in one the sound barrier.

A scream, like a fighter plane racing to the ground, roared in the air as Sam rocketed toward one of Doom's androids. Sam wasn't worried about the impact; so long as his blast field was up he was effectively invulnerable.

The android didn't even realize it was in the crosshairs until Sam slammed into it with the force of a speeding bullet train. The ground erupted around them, a fountain of dirt and debris exploded into the air.

As the dust began to settle, Sam coughed against the back of his hand as he staggered to his feet, gazing down. "Lord, you're put together better then Papa's '53 Chevy," he gushed in wide-eyed wonder. The android was seriously damaged, right arm dangling by a few wires, chest cavity cracked with tiny bolts of blue lightening sparking at irregular intervals, but otherwise it was still in one piece.

A shadow fell over the small crater and Sam looked up, suddenly remembering where he was. A second android stood over him, a huge boulder held aloft as if it was made out of papier-mâché. His blast field kicked in as adrenalin surged through his veins.

A razor thin beam of crimson force pulverized the boulder and Sam suddenly found himself capable of breathing once again as a need to empty his bladder faded into the background. He rocketed out of the hole, slamming head first into the androids chest, but only managing a glancing blow as the machine reacted with deceptively fast mechanized quickness.

Blue energy slammed into his side, it didn't hurt, but it did throw him off stride. With the lost of concentration his blast field shut off and he tumbled out of the sky. If not for long hours spent learning how to fall, Sam knew his landing could have been far worse then it was, though he didn't think he was going to walk properly for a week.

"Nightcrawler," Scott called out over his comlink. It wasn't as sophisticated as the devices S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives had, but they were top of the line communicators, better then what the military possessed at any rate. "Get Cannonball out of there."

Scott didn't like how this was playing out; they were jumping all over, putting out one brush fire before leaping on the next one while an inferno blazed all around them. They couldn't keep this up much longer. If reinforcements didn't burst onto the scene in the next thirty seconds or so, they wouldn't need a rescue.

He took his emotions and shoved them down deep, and concentrated on the job at hand. Worrying about what might or might not happen wasn't going to change what was happening.

Without hesitation Scott opened fire, a crimson beam lanced out from his visor an instant after Kurt began to materialize. The optic blast devastated the android. Driving the machine ten feet from its previous position. A second beam followed, only the android reacted faster then the first had, and avoided the brunt of Scott's attack.

A third android returned fire, unleashing a stream of blue energy from a diamond shaped gem in its chest plate. Scott's optic blast lashed out meeting the energy wave head on, they burst in a cascade of sparks as the two beams smashed together vying for supremacy.

Kurt flipped backward, avoiding the machine's calculated punch, it was faster then he had anticipated, smarter as well. A Pair of them we're keeping him away from Sam. They fought with an eerily human quality, keeping him off balance.

They were fast, too fast for him to risk teleporting in and grabbing the young man. For an instant he would be vulnerable; against most he would chance it, life as a high wire trapeze artist lent itself to a bit of risk taking and dare doing, but those things weren't human and reacted with lightening speed, faster then any person. He wasn't going to put Sam at risk. Not until he was positive of the outcome.

Buffy struck and dodged, she thrust, parried; danced among the demons, axe and hammer doing their utmost to hold the horde at bay. Small bloodstains dotted her top where a blade or claw managed to slip through her guard. On those rare occasions she would lash out scoring a hit of her own reminding them exactly who they were dealing with.

There was no time for her to think; right now, thinking would get her killed. Everything was happening too fast, better to allow her instincts to guide her. She wasn't sure how much longer she would be able to keep up the frenetic pace she was pushing now, a minute, ten…

Or did she only have another thirty seconds before a misstep put an end to her life.

None of that went through her mind as she scrunched down, twirling away from one attack, the of the haft smashing into the Mohra demon's lower back as the hammer passed the blade of a Sister of Jhe. With it's longer reach Buffy smashed the hammer head into the demon's face. The Mohra staggered as it spun around to lash out at her. Its attack went wide of the mark and it had to leap back quickly to avoid losing its leg to the gleaming axe blade.

There was no time to do more as she sensed a Fyral demon behind her. With a quick roll she avoided its heavy foot that would have crashed into her back and put herself in the shadow of the Jhe Sister. A solid mule kick to the Sister's hip shoved her in the foot's path. Too slow or too dimwitted the Fyral never even tried to alter its attack and its foot collided with her body. The Sister dropped to the ground with a bone shuddering thud.

Carol stopped as a deafening roar exploded out in a great fountain of debris. Chunks of rubble, concrete and steel fell all around her like a deadly hail storm, but Carol didn't flinch away. To her, even the largest piece of debris was little more then an annoyance. Almost like a swarm of gnats.

What was left of the factory, nothing more then a large pile of rubble had been shifting violently for nearly a minute and Carol figured Glory was close to escaping her own captivity. Carol knew it was too much to ask that the woman had killed herself.

Glory was suddenly in front of her, the woman was fast enough. Almost too fast. The irritation write on her face was enough to make Carol smirk, but she was careful to keep her expression neutral. "Isn't that wonderful," Glory mumbled disdainfully as she took in the chaos playing out below. She looked back at Carol and asked, "Shouldn't you be down there doling out orders?"

"They already have their orders," Carol answered. Her tone sounded overly casual. Glory began to walk past, and Carol added, "Just as I do," as she grabbed Glory's bicep. She pulled Glory back around as she moved forward, smashing her left fist into Glory's jaw.

Glory spun, pin wheeling frantically before she crashed to the ground. She landed in a heap, stunned. Her pride hurt far worse then she was. She looked back over her shoulder with a mixture of shock and anger. "How?" In her entire existence no human had ever struck as hard, not even the Slayer. There was a dull throb in her jaw.

"Did you believe Lord Doom to be such a fool that he wouldn't ferret out the truth? That your use of the Key would destroy the Earth… Blend all of existence, something that would throw a serious kink in his goals and that's something Lord Doom can't allow to happen."

Glory smirk as she rose back to her feet. "Yet he's not here," she pointed out calmly.

"He has every confidence in my ability to handle…" Hard eyes scathe over Glory. "… the situation."

Glory rushed forward, nothing more then a blur Carol barely tracked. Three rapid punches, first the gut followed by two heavy hook punches to the head, that sent Carol crashing to the ground. "Seems to me that would be over confidence," Glory gloated to the prone woman.

A savage growl hisses from between Carol's lips as she glared over her shoulder. She had anticipated the attack, on the woman's speed and counted on her innate knack of knowing where to be and where not to be, to guide her; only there had been nothing.

Carol wasn't sure if it was Glory or the proximity to ritual that was throwing it off. She survived just fine without it long before she ever gained powers and she'd survive without again.

It was so simple now, not like in the beginning, after Doom saved her from exposure to alien radiation and she first discovered she could fly. It was an exhilarating experience, soaring through the air, feeling it rush past. It was so freeing but mostly hit or miss. Long years of practice had given her an infinite measure of control. She shot backward like a bullet fired from a gun.

A hard shoulder slammed into Glory's chest driving her back half a dozen feet before she exerted her will and brought them to an abrupt stop, used Carol's momentum to twist her up and over, slamming Doom's lieutenant into the ground with enough force to cause buildings to tremble. A fraction of a heart beat later her fist descended.

Carol left palm slapped Glory's forearm, barely deflecting the blow. Her right plowed into Glory's chin, but the punch barely slowed the woman as she grabbed Carol's arm, spun and hurled her nearly thirty feet away. She hit hard and skidding back several more feet, but was back on her feet a moment later.

A moment was too long as Glory blurred forward, close-line her, forearm lashing across her chest to send her whip-crashing to the ground. For a brief moment, almost a pause she seemed to float in the space between seconds. As if time stopped having meaning and she could study, in great detail and the utmost reverence to the most mundane things; the petals of a flower, the veins of a leaf, the type of stitching in Glory's gown, the cracks and seams of a piece of rubble.

Then just as Carol realized she could, time snapped back to normalcy and she slammed, into the ground with a bone jarring force that caused her to bounce twice. Winded and dazed there was no way for Carol to brace for Glory's foot as it collided with her ribs.

She sailed through the air, crashed to ground thirty feet away and found herself hoisted to her feet before she rolled to a stop. Glory's left fist felt like a pile driver as it smashed into her face, "Did you…" Right hand followed and Carol felt teeth rattle. "…think, you could stop me?" Another left and right. "I'm a God." A left staggered Carol, but she reacted instinctively, her left arm wrapped around Glory's, cinched in tightly, painfully. She swung Glory around, pulling her into her right forearm. Glory crashed to the ground, bounced up roughly. Her right foot lashed out connecting with Carol's hip, keeping the woman off her.


End file.
